We are LornaCruzCharlotteDelilahIsla and we aren’t afraid of love, even if we’re supposed to be.

Even when everything hurts, even when other cities are exploding and people we love are disappearing, there’s still space for sweet things.

I want to know if we are the same, in the moments when we’re stripped bare.

We have to give up so many things when the people we love die. So we hang on to other familiar things.

I can’t quite figure out the difference between loving someone and loving things about them.

Love is insanity, apparently.

Love is something you have or don’t have. Love is like a fever.

It sounds like love just sort of happens, whether you want it to or not, whether you’re married or not.

Sometimes words I think are small come out big.

On our own, we’d look totally normal. Together, we’re something else. Together, we’re special.

We don’t smile, but we something. We something. It hurts, the way a deep connection to someone who isn’t yours sometimes does.

Kick off your shoes. Unburden yourself with song. Tell each other tales. Dance around the table. Leave the cleaning up for the morning. Then go outside and look at the stars.

I did NOT have three thousand pairs of shoes, I had one thousand and sixty.

Women are never disarmed by compliments. Men always are.

As from a large heap of flowers many garlands and wreaths are made, so by a mortal in this life there is much good work to be done.

Reckon right, and February hath one and thirty daies.

Conspiracy theories are an irresistible labor-saving device in the face of complexity.

Your poems will happen when no one is there.

The fanatic is dangerous.

The Western memory museum is now mostly a visual one.

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be: am an attendant lord, one that will do to swell a progress, start a scene or two, advise the prince.