We Are Only An Instant, That's True.

I Hate It When People Tell Me The End Of The Story Because My Mother Always Read The Last Page Of A Novel First To See Whether She Wanted To Read It. It Was A Strange Reading Habit.

Some Things, When They Change, Never Do Return To The Way They Once Were. Butterflies For Instance, And Women Who've Been In Love With The Wrong Man Too Often.

I'm At The Point Where Going Forward Is Easier Than Going Back.

It Wasn't Right To Have Someone Charge Into You Your World Without Even Asking, Acting As If You Were Nothing More Than An Egg To Be Flipped And Flopped, Sunny-side Up Or Scrambled, Depending On The Whims On Whoever Ran Your Life..._

My Theory Is That Everyone At One Time Or Another Has Been At The Fringe Of Society In Some Way: An Outcast In High School, A Stranger In A Foreign Country, The Best At Something, The Worst At Something, The One Who's Different. Being An Outsider Is The One Thing We All Have In Common.