This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.

Live free or die.

Perfection is a promise, and a reassurance that we are not wrong.

He is no longer mine to lose, but the grief is there, a gnawing sense of disbelief.

We wanted the freedom to love. We wanted the freedom to choose. Now we have to fight for it.

And you can't love, not fully, unless you are loved in return.

But maybe happiness isn't in the choosing. Maybe it's in the fiction, in the pretending: that wherever we have ended up is where we intended to be all along.

I don't understand how everything changes, how the layers of your life get buried. Impossible. At some point, at some time, we must all explode.

For a second, I feel a sense of overwhelming grief: for how things change, for the fact that we can never go back. I'm not certain of anything anymore. I don't know what will happen--

This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.

That is the rule of the Wilds: You must be bigger and stronger and tougher. You must hurt or be hurt.

My scars tell a story. They are a reminder of times when life tried to break me, but failed. They are markings of where the structure of my character was welded.

Don't let the old story repeat itself now. Arm yourself with all that's happened.

Life may be given in many ways, and loyalty to truth be sealed as bravely in the closet as the field.

Two things that can never be contained? Velociraptors and zombies.

In all countries with a settled bureaucracy people used to say: The cabinets come and go, but the bureaus remain.

Christmas celebrations are often full of sound. It would be good for us to make room for silence, to hear the voice of Love.

I was studying American politicians who were searching - allegedly - for American communists because it would put them on the front pages of the papers in their home towns.

Paparazzi need more flattering lenses.

You develop patience that enables you to wait gracefully and gratefully until the best arrives because you know it will.

The man who lives in division is living in death. He cannot find himself because he is lost; he has ceased to be a reality. The person he believes himself to be is a bad dream.