“I loved them, and would always love them. But there was no place where they could fit anymore, so I had nowhere to put all the things I felt. I didn't know what to do with them, and they didn't know what to do with me, and isn't that just like life?”

“I always knew what I wanted to do, I just didn't know I could do it.”

“...I'd like to know what you want out of life.""I don't know what I want anymore." I toyed with the delicate lace on my pillowcase, wishing that lovely things didn't have to be so fragile.”

“When he did that, I didn't hate him anymore, I really didn't, and maybe this is why people do so many hateful things to the people that who love them: because it's so easy to stop hating someone if you've already started loving them.”

“I collected their papers. The ones that blew into Brooklyn. They were just there at first. I didn't even know what they were. But once I did, I went all over the place, picking them up. I don't know what to do with them. I mean, they're meaningless now, but they still exist. You can't throw out something like that. You can't make them gone like that.”

“The feeling of not being enough for someone, of knowing you would do anything for them and they not the same for you. I didn't want to, but I felt bad for her. I wanted to hate her, but I couldn't. I couldn't blame her for what she didn't know.”