“It's a fact of life. Hearts are always hurting. And yet they still keep pumping.”

“…..pump, pump, pump- where is it? It’s fading fast (the sound of his heart as I laid on his bed), it’s disappearing as i drift to sleep (but its still in my head, always in my head–haunting).”

“The miracle left him dumbfounded, that his heart had not yet shirked its weary task of pumping his bored blood through his brain.”

“My "heart". Does that pitiful organ still represent anything? It lies motionless in my chest, pumping no blood, serving no purpose, and yet my feelings still seem to originate inside its cold walls. My muted sadness, my vague longing, my rare flickers of joy. They pool in the center of my chest and seep out of there, diluted and faint, but real.”

“It was always easier to be disgusted after the fact. It was easier to shake your head and be outraged, as if the outrage was proof of civility - a sign that the world hadn't died, that it could still scream out in horror, proof that its heart was still beating.”

“As long as it still hurts, it isn’t love yet.”