There’s always mystery. You both know that. You both know it isn’t perfect. Excitement, trust and struggle, and the unknown privacies that keep us together. Glue of struggle. I raise my glass. The fragile glass we stomped on and shattered and will forever be putting back together, like the puzzles we first worked as children, learning to be patient, searching for what fits.
-The Only Living Boy in New York, written by Allan Loeb.
