So if all we have is that glance in the window. If all we have is till this train stops. If all we have is till the sun comes up, till your lift picks you up. And If all we have is till the day I die. I'm ok with what we have. - I Wrote this for you.

But really, all we want, and I speak for the entire human race here, is contact. Someone to let us know that we aren't alone. That the world isn't a dream and you and I really are happening at the same time, even if it's not in the same place. That this is real. You're really there. I'm really here. We're real.

This is real.

The relationship you have with the world is just like any other relationship. Every now and again, even if it's pissed you off for no good reason, you have to look it in the eyes and say:

I love you.

where were you, where were you? just a little late.

My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart.

Dearest Cecilia, the story can resume. The one I had been planning on that evening walk. I can become again the man who once crossed the surrey park at dusk, in my best suit, swaggering on the promise of life. The man who, with the clarity of passion, made love to you in the library. The story can resume. I will return. Find you, love you, marry you and live without shame.

Every love is carved from loss.
Mine was. Yours is. Your great-great-great-grandchildren's will be.
But we learn to live in that love."
-everything is illuminated

Without words, it comes. And suddenly, sharply, one is aware of being separated from every person on one’s earth and every object, and from the beginning of things and from the future and even a little, from one’s self. A moment before one was happily playing, the world was round and friendly. Now at one’s feet there are chasms that had been invisible until this moment. And one knows, and never remembers how it was learned, that there will always be chasms, and across the chasms will always be those one loves.

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

Death ... a melancholy and shocking extremity.
- Sense and Sensibility