When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky
It’s never occurred to me that the stars are still up there shining even in the daytime when we can’t see them.
The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.
Sometimes you think you know things, know things very deeply, only to realize you don't know a damn thing.
All her knowledge is gone now. Everything she ever learned, or heard, or saw. Her particular way of looking at Hamlet or daisies or thinking about love, all her private intricate thoughts, her inconsequential secret musings – they’re gone too. I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I’m watching it burn right to the ground.
The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air.
... every available inch of his face busts into a smile - whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o'-lantern happy, which couldn't be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect.
He's bent over the strings tuning his guitar with such passionate attention I almost feel I should look away but I can't. In fact I'm full on gawking wondering what it would be like to be cool and casual and fearless and passionate and so freaking alive just like he is- and for a split second I want to play with him. I want to disturb the birds. Later as he plays and plays as all the fog burns away I think he's right. That's exactly it- I am crazy sad and somewhere deep inside all I want is to fly.
I could step out of this sad life like it's an old sorry dress.
This is the secret I kept from you, Bails, from myself too: I think I liked that Mom was gone, that she could be anybody, anywhere, doing anything. I liked that she was our invention, a woman living on the last page of the story with only what we imagined spread out before her. I liked that she was ours, alone.
Dreams change, yes, that makes sense, but I didn't know dreams could hide inside a person.
It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.
This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with Joe as our mouths refuse to part. Who knew all this time I was one kiss away from being Cathy and Juliet and Elizabeth Bennet and Lady Chatterley!?
I didn't know love felt like this, like turning into brightness.
grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping
And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?
Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?
Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.
We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.
No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.
It's time for second chances. It's time to remake the world.
At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.
I'm layering away: sauce, noodles, I belong to you, cheese, sauce, my heart is yours, noodles, cheese, I hear your soul in your music, cheese, cheese, CHEESE.
If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else.
I don't know how the heart withstands it.
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