She writes things with her movements that I for the life of me could never write with a pen.

And in the end, we were all just humans.. drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.

Sometimes I sit alone under the stars and think of the galaxies inside my heart and truly wonder if anyone will ever want to make sense of all that I am

It was rather beautiful: the way he put her insecurities to sleep. The way he dove into her eyes and starved all the fears and tasted all the dreams she kept coiled beneath her bones.

she lived with hurricane eyes and fell in love with the way the waves collapsed against her cheeks.

She stared at the stars like they were pillow for her mind and in their light she could rest her heavy head.

Tears are the silent passion for suffering

My hunger for writing will die when I have bled for the humans that never found the strength to find the words themselves

Nothing brings to life again a forgotten memory like a fragrance.

Ordinary people think you are crazy when you attempt the impossible, deride you when you are halfway to achieving it, and envy you when you achieve it.

There isn't any doubt I make strange combinations, but what to do on that problem?

The biggest challenge is how to affect public attitudes and make people care.

My dreams for the future are simple: work, a happy, healthy family, a lovely long motorcycle ride, and continuing the struggle to awaken people to the need for serious human rights reform.

I'm afraid of flying.

I respect all artists, just some more than the others. Because it's something that really needs to be done.

When I close my eyes my vision is even more powerful.

Women are scolded both for being mothers and for not being mothers, for wanting to eat their cake and have it too, and for not wanting to eat their cake and have it too.

He regarded himself as an accomplished writer — a clear sign of madness in anyone.

There are infinite shades of grey. Writing often appears so black and white.