None of us know how to fix ourselves, at least not entirely, not well enough.

Why were we never together anymore, just alone in each other's vicinity?

I wasn't sure if it was safe for me to be sharing time and space with other people, who all seemed so much gentler and safer and less of a secret to themselves than I felt I was.

I knew that my husband was a song that I had forgotten the words to and I was a fuzzy photograph of someone he used to love.

That's the thing about fiction, that you live in it totally for a little while, but you must forget it, sometimes totally forget it, in order to go about the rest of your day.

But we always avoided talking about these things—difficult things—and I wondered if that meant we'd be a little uncomfortable with or disappointed by each other for the rest of our lives.

Lately, I couldn't remember those years, as if childhood was a movie I'd only seen the previews to.

That boy never seemed to smile and he wore long sleeves year-round, and I was not so different from him—we were both unable to get near the real life in life.

I couldn't blame anyone for what was in me, because I am, like everyone, populated entirely by myself.

Everyone wants to feel like they could destroy a small-to-medium-to-large part of someone who loves them.

I was thinking about stabbing myself in the face—not actually considering stabbing myself in the face, but thinking that it would be a physical expression of how I felt.

Ако съдбата не те разсмива, ти просто не схващаш шегата.

Recently God asked me the same question in a new way, "And if I don't allow you to heal, if I never remove the pain, will you still trust Me?

If you don't dream, then you don't really sleep.

How to Commit the Perfect Murder" was an old game in heaven. I always chose the icicle: the weapon melts away.

He glanced at her, musing on the wonder of a beautiful woman with a disagreeable personality.

I'm not perfect but I'll be the creator of perfection.

Denzal Sinclaire embodies the tradition of the great singers I love like Nat Cole, yet definitely has his own voice. He is one of my favourite singers.

I believe the best definition of man is the ungrateful biped.

Hell is other people at breakfast.

Because our society is so polarized between homosexuals and heterosexuals, the bisexual closet has two doors.