I harbor an unbridled ardor of life, an impassioned love for living. Not for being, for existence. Rather, a zeal for the Earth's entire spectrum of possibilities and experiences to choose from and to do.

Choosing to do nothing, or even the next best thing, because of apprehension or fear is a coward's failure. A craven dereliction.

Explaining true love is like conveying the sight of a sunrise to someone who’s always slept in.

The fates pay deference to the power of our love. Our disparate paths converge. I feel it.

A sorrow I feel, for beauty in distress. Delicate, bent and weeping. Assailed by hurt.

I find it all too easy to overlook the good things. I suppose this is common, but I don't wish to be common.

I’m grateful for the little things you do for me. Not to show me you love me, rather, because you love me.

That is the best, for sure—to psychologically manipulate someone in such a way that they are unable to decide if they have just been commendedor brilliantly deprecated.

Even though it hurts me so, this broken heart is tough. For now, forgive, forget and for us, that is enough.