a part of me wants to scatter all over the ground, like the chocolate milk spilled by a child on the subway exit, dripping down the sticky staircases. People walk by, avoiding it. It's not unusual, every day, someone spills something there.

Not to fate, or to God. But to the stars, the trees swinging under midnight breeze - I have to mean something.

Words are not reliable, neither are we. In fact, that’s the charm of it: every time we try to say something, the meaning shifts a little, slightly bent. We can’t be objective about anything, we can’t see ourselves through the eyes of God. So when people talk about love, what you hear is always, in some ways, people talking about themselves. 

There are moments in a life you only recognize afterwards as the turning points. Rarely a perfect one, never some vast, calculated decision. You were simply pushed one step forward, and only in looking back do you realize the other path has already gone under.