When you reach thirty, you realize its not the end of the world.
Death exists, not as the opposite but as a part of life.
A person can’t exist without morals. I wouldn’t doubt if morals weren’t the very balance to my simultaneity.
I was always hungry for love. Just once, I wanted to know what it was like to get my fill of it—to be fed so much love I couldn't take it any more. Just once.
Because this storm isn't something that blew in from far away, something that has nothing to do with you. This storm is you. Something inside of you.
The dead will always be dead, but we have to go on living.
Because we would have had to pay the world back what we owed it…the pain of growing up.
That we were wonderful traveling companions but in the end no more than lonely lumps of metal on their own separate orbits.
To be honest about it, I'm not trying to die. I'm just waiting for death to come. Like sitting on a bench at the station, waiting for the train.
The hands of the clock buried inside her soul ground to a halt then. Time outside, of course, flows on as always, but she isn’t affected by it. For her, what we consider normal time is essentially meaningless.