“But you're sleep, and you're a few miles away, and I have no means to get to you right now, so I’m writing.”

“I’m crossing my fingers that we grow deaf together. I’m pleased just writing you.”

“When I told the therapist that the “me” that I am now is the best me I can be, I was truthful. I’ve always given you my best, so when you say it's not enough, it chips away at the “best me.”

“If I could choose one place to be right now - fuck Copenhagen and Cuba. I’d be at right beside you, wherever you are, smiling.”

“I,” I start, and she turns to look at my lips moving, rehearsing for some grand proposal. “I think it’d be good idea if you brought a few books over and left them on my shelf.” I’m a writer, and this is as good as it gets. She didn’t need a ring, just the ability to borrow a bookmark whenever she needed, or unwritten or unspoken permission to take my copy of Cecil Brown’s The Life and Loves of Mr. Jiveass Nigger with the original cover.”

“i don't believe the world will end, but i believe stones will wear away. so i don't care what you place on my tombstone.”

“i hope god isn't always watching - there are a few things i want to surprise him with - you being one of them.”