“Let’s start with sex, because it always seems to come down to that, doesn’t it? Fine, it’s all right, let’s just address it straight up. It’s Friday night and we’re at that bar you “hate” but always end up at because friends. Because lonesome. Because cheap drinks. And the hours wile away until it is three in the morning, when Ray Bradbury said the soul is most vulnerable.”—"Maybe Don’t Kiss Me," http://thoughtcatalog.com/2012/maybe-dont-kiss-me/#dmEwIyRY5sC4Mirv.99
“No doubt all of this is not true remembrance but the ruinous work of nostalgia, which obliterates the past, and no doubt, as usual, I have exaggerated everything.”—The Mysteries of Pittsburgh, by Michael Chabon
“For at that moment, the world is full of wonder as I feel her fingers reach for the buttons on my shirt and slowly, ever so slowly, she begins to undo them one by one.”—Nicholas Sparks, from The Notebook (thanks, bonkerbat)
I wrote this story for you, but when I began it I had not realized that girls grow quicker than books. As a result you are already too old for fairy tales, and by the time it is printed and bound you will be older still. But some day you will be old enough to start reading fairy tales again. You can then take it down from some upper shelf, dust it, and tell me what you think of it. I shall probably be too deaf to hear, and too old to understand a word you say, but I shall still be
You came upon me carving some kind of little figure out of wood and you said, ‘Why don’t you make something for me?’
I asked you what you wanted, and you said ‘A box.’
'To put things in.'
'Whatever you have.'
Well, here’s your box. Nearly everything I have is in it, and it’s not full. Pain and excitement are in it, and feeling good or bad and evil thoughts and good thoughts-the pleasure of design and some despair and the indescribable joy of creation.
And on top of these are all the gratitude and love I have for you.