Quotes from Toby Barlow

The bullet we're running from is almost never the one that hits us

A lot of people, when you ask if they want to read your epic poem, start bolting for the door.

Knowing someone isn't coming back doesn't mean you ever stop waiting

he knows that it's impossible to tell a wolf from a man if he keeps his chin up and his teeth clean.

The bullet we're running from is almost never the one that hits us.

Call him Judas if you want but he did it for reasons much older than silver.

And were you cornered by her, eye to eye, you would see that there are still some watchful creatures whose essence lies unbound by words. There is still a wilderness.

Some things don't pass, the injuries don't heal they merely find a place in our guts and in our bones where they fitfully rest, tossing and turning between our knuckles and ribs waiting to wake as the shadows grow long.

The heart is a bloody thing.

The secret must stay and- according to scientists- the love will live. The heart is quite comfortable with secrets. After all, its home is a dark wet place tucked in among all the other organs who aren't talking either.

That's what love does/ It chases the dragons away/ before their claws can sink in.

Everyone is always looking in the wrong direction, we worry about our lovers while losing our jobs we stress out about cancer while our children run away we ponder the stars while burning the earth. Lark used to say the buller we're running from is almost never the one that hits us.

As she stared at the ceiling that first night her body softly falling back into itself, she thought of how we dream of journeying on spaceships to other universes, other worlds, but really, for the forever, we're stuck here on the dirt and the only time we will travel anywhere truly unknowable is when we slip into the skin of another, venturing into their mysteries, always hoping for a safe landing.

There are two things that make the conscious world move, decision and desire.

You either trust or you distrust coincidence. It 's either small doses of magic pulling you to your appointed destiny or the devil trying to lead you down to the thorns.

Like so much of the trouble in the world it ends simply with exhaustion.

The theory is simple. Every boy, every man, is really a bit of a golden retriever or a big chocolate Lab. Watch any man's eyes at the bounce of a ball. His head tilts slightly sideways, just a hair, as a primitive focus comes to life.

You can't own something unless you can swallow it

Each dog marks a section of our lives, and in the end, we feed them to the dark, burying them there while we carry on.

she tried to avoid his gaze but he held her steady and would not look away, Finally her eyes spoke to him. Her eyes said, Words are too weak, too small, they are always too small, even the purest and most simple phrases fail. Her eyes said, Look at who you are, you were asleep when I met you, but now you're awake, so stay awake. I did not need you and I did not want you and yet here you are, awake in my body and in my heart.

Yes, liquor is the thin white coat of paint you wash over the cracks in your foundation. Makes any rotten house livable for a few hours. Sometimes days.

You take a shower, your head is up, far away from everything, lost in the clouds, but down in the tub, man, you know who you are.

Immediately he surprised her, for she like the way he kissed, like a man who wanted to swallow life.

There in that embrace, she feels something shuffling around, moving warily fumbling through the dusty rooms of her heart, and, one by one, turning on the lights