Perhaps all our loves are merely hints and symbols; vagabond-language scrawled on gate-posts and paving-stones along the weary road that others have tramped before us; perhaps you and I are types and this sadness which sometimes falls between us springs from disappointment in our search, each straining through and beyond the other, snatching a glimpse now and then of the shadow which turns the corner always a pace or two ahead of us.
I can't quote it, but in The Handmaid's Tale Offred narrates that you age at the elbows and when push comes to shove one can also use a hidden stash of miniature margarine portions as moisturizer (but only apply it at night so the wife of the man raping you doesn't catch on as she strangles your wrists). I've never forgotten these tips.
All right, this one has stuck with me since I first read it:
"One day, when you are 14, 28 or 65,
you will stumble upon someone who will start a fire in you that cannot die.
However, the saddest, most awful truth you will ever come to find--
is they are not always with whom we spend our lives."
- Beau Taplin