Some journes end at the airport. The important ones become a state of mind.
Maybe loving me was never supposed to be easy. Curiosity was always the stronger instinct.
We rarely recognize the beginning while we're living it.
At the time, it was just another afternoon. Memory gave it a different name.
Some journeys are measured in kilometres. The important ones are measured in who you become before you arrive.
Time has an unusual sense of humor. Some memories fade. Some simply become funnier.
I never chased sunsets. I stayed for what happened afterwards
Some nights weren't lonely. They were simply too full of possibility.
Some summers never really happened. They survived as colour, music and impossible happiness
end of chapter three
