I threw his framed picture off my balcony just to hear my heart break.

I told him I had once lost everything I had, too, and that I think that can be God’s way of building walls around us to force us to look up at Him.

And so I just kept writing to myself.

Unfortunately, he still hadn’t asked for my number, or a date, or my hand in marriage, and my drink was getting low.

I didn’t answer. We were not buddies. We could not chat about the proximity of our offices, or football, or forgiveness.

The voice sang on, “I am ready, I am ready, I am fine. I am fine, I am fine, I am fine.” I played it again. I was not fine.

Each guy stamped the passport of my heart. “You’re worthy.” Stamp. “You’re enough.” “You have not failed completely.” Stamp, stamp.

I remembered learning from my favorite professor at Belmont to “surround yourself with people who are better than you, ” and I was now living that mantra.

I used to cover my windows in heavy curtains, never drawn. Now I danced in the sunlight on my hardwood floors.

That’s how it felt – that the loss of him had a life of its own. I lived with it as I could have lived with him. Some nights it was quiet and sometimes it pounded on my door.

But I tended not to date men who ever showed up for me.

They always come back, but we don’t always answer.

This world is the playing ground of our thoughts and imaginations which create our perceptions.

Humility is like underwear essential but indecent if it shows.

This was no ordinary UFO. Scores of people saw it. It was no illusion, no deception, no imagination.

Courage, my boy! that is the complexion of virtue.

Continue your quest by taking the test. Yes, but what test? What test was I supposed to take? The Kobayashi Maru? The Pepsi Challenge? Could the clue have been any more vague?

Everyone has some dysfunction in their families. They have to deal with it. You don't walk away if you love someone. You help the person.

Her name is Ago, and she belonged to the last culture to evolve in North America.

A man's wife has more power over him than the state has.

Writing is a fearsome but grand vocation—potentially healing but likewise deadly. I wouldn’t trade my life for the world.