“We let ourselves loose on that simple blank piece of paper, and our bodies spill. The terror, the love…embodying our stories page after page. In a sense, the pen was our tongue, it is how we delineate the world.”

“If our love was a story book, we would meet on the very first page.”

“True love never has to end so why shouldn't our story continue after the last page has been written”

“In the end, we all die. This is not of question. Inarguable. No mystery lay here. The mystery dwells in two questions: How long will our story be, and of what will the pages read?”

“We read novels because we need stories; we crave them; we can’t live without telling them and hearing them. Stories are how we make sense of our lives and of the world. When we’re distressed and go to therapy, our therapist’s job is to help us tell our story. Life doesn’t come with plots; it’s messy and chaotic; life is one damn, inexplicable thing after another. And we can’t have that. We insist on meaning. And so we tell stories so that our lives make sense.”

“all we have is our deep and abiding love for each other. We can't loose that or we loose ourselves. If we don't help each other,who will?”