When you are madly in love, the most radical thing you can do is nothing. You shouldn’t care anymore. You have dropped the pen. There is no better story. There is only this, and this is enough. Let the world go on spinning. You, on the other hand, have already arrived.

When you’re madly in love, you have the revelation that everything that has ever come before that—every insomniac night, every journal entry, every subtle rehearsal of a life you didn’t yet know how to live—was an imitation.

I want there to be more seconds between the seconds, I want to claw time open, I want to unzip each moment and nestle inside it like Thumbelina in her walnut shell.