I love you. You annoy me more than I ever thought possible, but I want to spend every irritating minute with you.
I miss you. Maybe tonight we can, you know, rent a movie and then not watch it.
— Why was your wife so special?
— Howling is your program? It was a million little things. When you added them up, it meant we were meant for each other. I knew it the very first time I touched her. It was like coming home, only to no home I'd ever known. I was just taking her hand to help her out of a car. And I knew it. It was... Like magic.
Here was where the big summer-quiet winds lived and passed in the green depths, like ghost whales, unseen.
— So listen to me when I say that love isn't something we invented. It's observable, powerful. It has to mean something.
— Love has meaning, yes. Social utility, social bonding, child rearing...
— We love people who have died. Where's the social utility in that?
— None.
— Maybe it means something more, something we can't yet understand. Maybe it's some evidence, some... artifact of a higher dimension that we can't
consciously perceive. I'm drawn across the universe to someone I haven't seen in a decade, who I know is probably dead. Love is the one thing we're capable of perceiving that transcends dimensions of time and space. Maybe we should trust that, even if we can't understand it yet.
