Wish on everything. Pink cars are good, especially old ones. And stars of course, first stars and shooting stars. Planes will do if they are the first light in the sky and look like stars. Wish in tunnels, holding your breath and lifting your feet off the ground. Birthday candles. Baby teeth.
The wishes might not come true the way you think they will, not everything will be perfect, but love will come because it always does, because why else would it exist and it will make everything hurt a little less. You just have to believe in yourself.
I will not eat cakes or cookies or food. I will be thin, thin, pure. I will be pure and empty. Weight dropping off. Ninety-nine... ninety-five... ninety-two... ninety. Just one more to eighty-nine. Where does it go? Where in the universe does it go?
The books downstairs were reciting their poetry to each other, rubbing together, whispering through the leathery covers. Wine was flowing through the water pipes. You had caught my leaping heart in your hands like a fish.
The lesson of this life is not for me to touch you again. It is to accept who I am now and not feel shame.
Being a good mother is being a hero. Right?
Weetzie and My Secret Agent Lover Man and Dirk and Duck and Cherokee and Witch Baby and Slinkster Dog and Go-Go Girl and the puppies Pee Wee, Wee Wee, Teenie Wee, Tiki Tee, and Tee Pee were driving down Hollywood Boulevard on their way to the Tick Tock Tea Room for turkey platters.
You’ll have to take me to some museums,” he said. He was being the young man on the road, following the sun because gray weather made him suicidal, writing his poetry in his mind in diners and gas station men’s rooms across the country.
Like Beauty. But she only pricked her finger. I had a spindle through my heart.
Love, that elusive leading lady, plays too many parts to be typecast.
Hopefully, when you are young, you discover something called love, which is really just another name for going home.
What else was filmmmaking about if not a series of perfect and potent images strung together like the words of a poem?
He slid his hands around behind me and placed his fingers on my shoulder blades, touching the bones reverently, as if he had discovered wings.
Find the goddess inside yourself instead of looking for the god in someone else.
I want to be untouchable and beautiful and completely dead inside.
Metaphors are an interesting example of creating magic in prose.
The girl in the mirror wasn’t who I wanted to be and her life wasn’t the one I wanted to have.
No matter how bad things get, you can always see the beauty in them. The worse things get, the more you have to make yourself see the magic in order to survive.
Magic can be found in stolen moments.