Do you think you could let someone go if you thought it was best for them?

The beauty of dystopia is that it lets us vicariously experience future worlds - but we still have the power to change our own.

I realize now how much courage it takes to choose the life you want, whatever that might be.

When we read dystopia, we root for these people to break free because we are these people; hoping and fighting against things that are bigger than ourselves.

Red is the first color of spring. It's the real color of rebirth. Of beginning.

In the end you can't always choose what to keep. You can only choose how you let it go.

Growing apart doesn't change the fact that for a long time we grew side by side; our roots will always be tangled. I'm glad for that.

Every minute you spend with someone gives them a part of your life and takes part of theirs.

It is strange how we hold on to the pieces of the past while we wait for our futures.

This is a difficult balance, telling the truth: how much to share, how much to keep, which truths will wound but not ruin, which will cut too deep to heal.

Forgetting lets you live without the pain for a moment but remembering hits hard.

Every single human being should be the fulfilment of a prophecy: for every human being should be the realisation of some ideal, either in the mind of God or in the mind of man.

Xander Harris: "Just when you think you know a guy he robs a mass grave and takes off.

Our choices define who we are when we make them. Therefore,  we always have the power to change and choose who we are.

Didn't it make sense that after something horrible happens, something better should follow?

Make the present good, and the past will take care of itself.

This is the United States of America and unfortunately, race still matters to a lot of people. The evil head of racism doesn't hide, it sticks its head up.

I don't mind a repetitive chorus; I mind repetitive verse. I mean, it's the same amount of space. Why would you have only three diamonds if you can have six?

I'm a Bookchinite, and nobody has a right to claim that but me.

There's no tiling moral about beauty.

What shall a man say when a friend has vanished behind the doors of Death? A mere tangle of barren words, only words.