Olivia’s heart pittered. A blank page. A pen in hand. Was there anything as exciting? The endless possibilities, the potential for beauty, even genius, waiting for that breath of life.

They picked up shells and sea glass, pebbles smooth and white. The wind blew and the surf hissed warm over their toes, sucked the sand from under their soles. The rhythm, the pulse of the sea soothed and electrified.

Alfonse gave her his words, a mad jumble that didn't sound as lovely coming from his mouth as it would have flying out of the tips of his fingers.

Olivia's heart pittered. A blank page. A pen in hand. Was there anything as exciting? The endless possibilities, the potential for beauty, even genius, waiting for that breath of life.

There are many yesterdays. With any luck, many tomorrows. But there's only one today. Don't fuck it up.

Love is not passion, my dear. Love is sweet and good and righteous. Passion is wild and messy and dangerous.

A book is like a woman. She should leave your bed with her hair tangled and her clothes on backward. A book without creases is a book that has never known passion.