I love my mom. And this time, I told her I loved her. And she told me she loved me, too. And things were okay for a little while.

Downtown. Lights on buildings and everything that makes you wonder. And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

She wasn't bitter. She was sad, though. But it was a hopeful kind of sad. The kind of sad that just takes time.

There's nothing like deep breaths after laughing that hard. Nothing in the world like a sore stomach for the right reasons.

Old pictures look very rugged and young, and the people in the photographs always seem a lot happier than you are.

We accept the love we think we deserve.

I really think that everyone should have watercolors, magnetic poetry, and a harmonica.

Maybe these are my glory days, and I'm not ever realizing it because they involve a ball.

And in that moment, I swear we were infinite.

please believe that things are good with me, and even when they're not, they will be soon enough. And i will always believe the same about you.

And I guess I realized at that moment that I really did love her. Because there was nothing to gain, and that didn't matter.

Men take care not to make women weep, for God counts their tears.

If we fail to listen to music, we shall be miserable.

I'm not capable of being casual with you, Lily.

I see at intervals the glance of a curious sort of bird through the close set bars of a cage: a vivid, restless, resolute captive is there; were it but free, it would soar cloud-high.

My hobbies are mountain biking, horseback riding and packing, canoeing and kayaking, hiking, camping, cooking, and skiing.

The artist's conception of his art or the scientist's of his science is usually as great as his conception of his own worth is small.

Imagination has given us the steam engine, the telephone, the talking-machine, and the automobile, for these things had to be dreamed of before they became realities.

But beef is rare within these oxless isles; Goat's flesh there is, no doubt, and kid, and mutton; And, when a holiday upon them smiles, A joint upon their barbarous spits they put on.

Art is the conveyance of spirit by means of matter.

The more real you get, the more unreal things get.