I had no answer to those questions, only hope. With absolutely no one to turn to, no Mikey, no Axe, no Danny, I have to face the final battle by myself, maybe lonely, maybe desolate, maybe against formidable odds. But I was not giving up. I had only ...
I knew this for a fact. Little by little, the ache to see him, to hear him would disappear. Little by little I’d forget how his arms felt, how his fingers felt, how his lips felt..the sound of his voice, the intensity of his gaze, all of it. Trace ...
Lloyd Dobler: [leaving the last of a series of messages on Diane's answering machine] "Maybe I didn't really know you. Maybe you were just a mirage. Maybe the world is full of food and sex and spectacle and we're all just hurling towards an apocalyps...
August Rush: Sometimes the world tries ot knock it out of you. But I believe in music the way that some people believe in fairy tales. I like to imagine that what I hear came from my mother and father. Maybe the notes I hear, are the same ones they h...
George, she says it's the truth that matters. We live and die for the chance to maybe tell a little bit of the truth, maybe shame the Devil just a little bit before we go.
Maybe they were born of karma, their own or their parents', Zack thought; maybe the universe had a purpose for them, and they were what they were because the world needed them to be that way.
I think about how maybe it's not things that change but people that change, and maybe that's the change everyone is really talking about.
Maybe I was naïve to think that silence was implicit complacence, instead of a festering question. Maybe I was silly to believe that friends owed each other anything.
Maybe you had to leave in order to miss a place; maybe you had to travel to figure out how beloved your starting point was.
Maybe loneliness is an acquired taste, or maybe it's like plunging your hand in ice water--it hurts like hell in the beginning, and then you go numb.
Maybe a person is just made up of a lot of people," I say. "Maybe we're accumulating these new selves all the time.
Maybe I did mean to kill myself. I didn't think it outright but...maybe the truth is, I didn't--I don't--much care one way or th'other.
But maybe happiness isn't in the choosing. Maybe it's in the fiction, in the pretending: that wherever we have ended up is where we intended to be all along.
Maybe what my sister wanted was to stay here and get married and have a family. Maybe that was her color of extraordinary.
Vietnam...war...it did something to us. Or maybe not. Maybe the bad seeds were always in me, and war gave them a dark place in which to grow.
God, this is why I can never live with women. They go off into corners and think, maybe it’s this, maybe it’s that. Ask, woman. Ask.
Maybe one day the smears of paint Harley left throughout Godspeed will fade, and maybe the stars never will, but i'd rather have Harley's colors.
I thought maybe a day was coming when I'd stop constantly worrying about how to live. Maybe at some point I'd just start living, no questions asked.
The voice says, maybe you don't go to hell for the things you do. Maybe you go to hell for the things you don't do. The things you don't finish.
Maybe, it is easier to forget the past, than to overcome the pain caused by it. Maybe, it is one of some other reasons, why men forget their prehuman ancestor.
Maybe the trick is for me to always be in some sort of disguise, to always be dressed to play someone else. Only then can I really appreciate myself.
