...even a poisoned, desolate childhood can be missed.

Love is a luxury. It's something that people are allowed to indulge in when they're not simply trying to survive and keep other people alive.

She let him go once. Every day demands that she release him over and over again.

But there it is: Everyone is alone, for life, and maybe that's not such a bad thing.

Weakness, like not being able to bury the past. Weakness, like not giving up hope when you know you should.

But she's still afraid that the more she misses him--his face, his skin, the way he looked at her--and the more hope she has that she'll see him again, the more she has to lose.

If home isn't a place, what is it?''A feeling.

There is always more we can do in ministry, but God is not asking 'Can you do more?'. He is asking 'Do you love me?' Some of those extras are not always as vital as we think them to be.

A mother who would stop at nothing for her child is dangerous woman when crossed.

Sleep riches and health to be truly enjoyed must be interrupted.

Small steps to the madhouse still get us there at last

We were writing songs about girls when we still thought girls had cooties.

I want women -- and men -- to feel empowered by a deeper and more psychotic part of themselves. The part they're always trying desperately to hide. I want that to become something that they cherish.

I have deserved neither so much honor or so much disgrace.

What you don’t know keeps you poor.

A masterpiece is something said once and for all, stated, finished, so that it's there complete in the mind, if only at the back.

We cannot perform our tasks to the best of our power, unless we think well of our own capacity.