Your failures and your faults, they stick with you. They glob into ugly, cancerous growths inside you and make you want to die.

Cut the ending. Revise the script. The man of her dreams is a girl.

This is my vision-what I imagine I'll pass through on my way to the light. The blue sky, the clouds, the rays of light.

...the man of my dreams is a girl.

Really? It seems too good to be true. I don't trust it. I don't trust anyone.

Me? I had no dreams. No longings. Dreams only set you up for disappointment. Plus, you had to have a life to have dreams of a better life.

No one ever found out what was happening inside me. How the pain was eating me away. No one ever came to my rescue, or stood up for me.

What's the point of living if you don't belong anywhere?

What you see, isn't always what you get

Is that all I am? A friend?" "Of course not," I say. "I love you." "Am I the only one?" she asks. "Yes. Completely." First, last, and always.

I have no intent. I have no reason to live, that's all. When I'm gone, I don't want to be remembered.

He'd lived long enough to know that everyone handled grief in different ways, and little by little, they all seemed to accept their new lives.

Wisdom crieth without she uttereth her voice in the street.

It's really hard for me to capture this certain way of singing that sounds good to me. I don't really understand it, but hopefully some day I'll figure it out.

The appalling thing about war is that it kills all love of truth.

Like a lot of inwardly drawn young people, I spent a lot of time in libraries. At my high school, I often spent my lunch breaks there.

No woman allows her lover to descend from his pedestal. Even a god is not forgiven the slightest pettiness.

It's amazing. Being clearheaded for a show, for starters. Not being reflux-y because of the amount of beer you've drunk.

Being brave was easy when you would rather die than give up.

If you believe, so will they.

The maker of a sentence launches out into the infinite.