Love. The black hook. The spear singing through the mind.

We all got holes in our lives. Nobody dies in a perfect garment.

The length of sky is just about the size of my ignorance. Pure and wide.

At times the whole sky was ringed in shooting points and puckers of light gathering and falling, pulsing, fading, rhythmical as breathing. All of a piece. As if the sky were a pattern of nerves and our thought and memories traveled across it. As if the sky were one gigantic memory for us all.

People forget the good, because the bad has more punch.

I thought how we might have to yell to be heard by Higher Power, but that’s not saying it’s not there. And that is faith for you. It’s belief even when the gods don’t deliver.

Your life feels different on you, once you greet death and understand your heart’s position.

Love must not touch the marrow of the soul. Our affections must be breakable chains that we can cast them off or tighten them.

Love won't be tampered with; love won't go away. Push it to one side and it creeps to the other.

They were so strong in their beliefs that there came a time when it hardly mattered what exactly those beliefs were; they all fused into a single stubbornness.