We are all a volume on a shelf of a library, a
story unto ourselves, never possibly
described with one word or even very
accurately with thousands. A person is
never as quiet or unrestrained as the seem,
or as bad or good, as vulnerable or as
strong, as sweet or as fiesty; we are thickly
layered, page upon lying page, behind
simple covers. And love - it is not the book
itself, but the binding. It can rip us apart or
hold us together.
– Honey, Baby, Sweetheart