“And then I feel it. It saturates the water around me, thrumming withoug rhythm. The pulse. Someone is close. Someone I don't reconize. Slowly, I tiptoe backward, careful not to splash or slosh. After a few seconds, tiptoeing doesn't make a whole lot of sense. If I can sense them, they can sense me. The pulse is getting stronger. They're heading straight toward me. Fast.”

“Frankly, people don't make sense to me.' I nod in agreement. 'Frankly, people don't make sense to me either,' I say.”

“About two months after this photo was taken I was born and my mum died - clean swap. Caring about someone I never knew doesn't make sense, but that's how it is. This photo means a lot. There must be some invisible mother-daughter wiring that runs from her image in a straight line to my heart.”

“...she wanted God to make sense. He doesn't. He will make no more sense to me than I will make sense to an ant.”

“She pulled away. "That doesn't make any sense.""Neither does this," he said, "but I don't care. I'm sick of trying to pretend I can live without you. Don't you understand that? Can't you see it's killing me?”

“How do I think of you? As someone I want to be with. As someone as young as me, but "older," if that makes sense. As someone I like to look at, not just because you're good to look at, but because just looking at you makes me smile and feel happier. As someone who knows her mind and who I envy for that. As someone who is strong in herself without seeming to need anyone else to help her. As someone who makes me thinks and unsettles me in a way that makes me feel more alive.”