Accidents ambush the unsuspecting, often violently, just like love.

If you listen to the wind very carefully, you'll be able to hear me whisper my love for you.

What is it like to wear another person’s skin?”
“I don’t have a good answer for that,” I said. “It hurts.”
“Can you remember their stories? Can you feel the love that they felt?

With every fragment of rock that fall from me, I can hear the voice of Marianne Engle. I love you. Aishiteru. Ego amo te. Ti amo. Eg elska pig. Ich liebe dich. It is moving across time, coming to me in every language of the world, and it sounds like pure love.

I am more than my scars.

Love is like a wind stirring the grass beneath trees on a black night,' he had said. 'You must not try to make love definite. It is the divine accident of life. If you try to be definite and sure about it and to live beneath the trees, where soft night winds blow, the long hot day of disappointment comes swiftly and the gritty dust from passing wagons gathers upon lips inflamed and made tender by kisses.