“Hope” is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops – at all -

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard - And sore must be the storm - That could abash the little Bird That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet – never – in Extremity, It asked a crumb – of me.

I keep your secrets where I keep your promises but you need my confessions about as much as you need my lies

Well, you never knew exactly how much space you occupied in people’s lives. Yet from this fog his affection emerged – the best contacts are when one knows the obstacles and still wants to preserve a relation.

A cloud without you is only a clod.

It’s quite a company. It’s quiet company.

Even then, more than a year earlier, there were neurons in her head, not far from her ears, that were being strangled to death, too quietly for her to hear them. Some would argue that things were going so insidiously wrong that the neurons themselves initiated events that would lead to their own destruction. Whether it was molecular murder or cellular suicide, they were unable to warn her of what was happening before they died.

And her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering.

If I always told you the truth, I wouldn’t need you to trust me.

Love me slow, hallucinating

You honour the dead by going on. Even when you’re scared. You live because they don’t get to.