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“Is it that you don’t like people, or that you just grow tired of them and can’t for the life of you remember why you ever found them interesting?”
it was so hopelessly bereft of joy that wishing something was a luxury no longer worth considering.
Depriving us of what we want at death’s door seems pointless,
they’ve never found someone who mattered enough to hurt them.”
maybe then you can start noticing those tiny accidents that turn out to be miracles and that can redefine our lives and cast an incandescent luster over things that, in the great scheme of things, could easily be meaningless. But this is not meaningless.”
It doesn’t deal us fifty-two cards; it deals, say, four or five, and they happen to be the same ones our parents and grandparents and great-grandparents played. The cards look pretty frayed and bent. The choice of sequences is limited: at some point the cards will repeat themselves, seldom in the same order, but always in a pattern that seems uncannily familiar. Sometimes the last card is not even played by the one whose life ended. Fate doesn’t always respect what we believe is the end of a life. It will deal your last card to those who come after. Which is why I think all lives are condemned
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Living means dying with regrets stuck in your craw.
by the time we learn to live, it’s already too late.
Music doesn’t give answers to questions I don’t know how to ask.
he knew that though neither of us sought out the other it was only because we had never really parted
all he needed when the time was right was simply to come and find me. “And you did.” “And I did,” he said.
