It seems to me now that the past belongs to those who have the self-possession, or the arrogance, or enough sheer determined longing, to stamp their own particular imagination history. It was no use wondering...

I have this strange feeling none of this is really happening. Like I’m standing far away from myself. Like nothing is real. Have you ever had a feeling like that?

If we just had some time to ourselves, we could talk to each other the way we used to. Maybe about nothing in particular at first, but even that would be a start.

It is a lonely thing, remembering for someone else.

Who else but a lover retains the ability to wound the other person with such passion, such precision? And who else but that lover has the capacity to heal what he or she has done?