“Joan of Arc came back as a little girl in Japan, and her father told her to stop listening to her imaginary friends.
Elvis was born again in a small village in Sudan, he died hungry, age 9, never knowing what a guitar was.
Michelangelo was drafted into the military at age 18 in Korea, he painted his face black with shoe polish and learned to kill.
Jackson Pollock got told to stop making a mess, somewhere in Russia.
Hemingway, to this day, writes DVD instruction manuals somewhere in China. He's an old man on a factory line. You wouldn't recognise him.
Gandhi was born to a wealthy stockbroker in New York. He never forgave the world after his father threw himself from his office window, on the 21st floor.
And everyone, somewhere, is someone, if we only give them a chance.”
“Yet you still value the things you've lost the most. Because the things you've lost are still perfect in your head. They never rusted. They never broke. They are made of the memories you once had, which only grow rosier and brighter, day by day. They are made of the dreams of how wonderful things could have been and must never suffer the indignity of actually still existing. Of being real. Of having flaws. Of breaking and deteriorating. Only the things you no longer have will always be perfect.”
“You should know that there is something worse than hate and that is unlove. Because hate is anger over something lost, hate is passion, hate is misguided, it’s caring for the wrong things but it is still caring. But unlove, unlove is to unkiss, to unremember, to unhold, to undream, to undo everything that ever was and leave smooth stone behind in its wake. No fire. No fury. Just, nothing. And that is worse than hate.”
“And I'd study the science of you 'til I turned it into an art. The way your atoms rub together. Molecules colliding. Chemistry building. Explosions of heat and radiation. Burning like a star at the end of the world.”
“Things just break sometimes. Maybe we should blame that third person we became, that personality we shared together. Maybe it’s their fault because you’re a good person and I think I’m a good person too. We just weren’t made for this.”
—I Wrote This For You: The Fragments Belong Together
“Perhaps I can live through this. But I would be deluding myself if I thought that late at night, before I slept, she wouldn't return to haunt me. And that would be unfair to whomever I was trying to sleep next to. No matter how pure my intentions were. There are no soulmates. Love is a lie. Love, is broken.”