This is what I want. This is the only thing I’ve ever wanted. Everything else – every single second of every single day that has come before this very moment, this kiss – has meant nothing.
The sun has just risen, weak and watery-looking, like it had just spilled itself over the horizon and is too lazy to clean itself up.
My stomach gets that hollowed-out feeling. It’s amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart.
There are more of us than you think.
Take it from me: If you hear the past speaking to you, feel it tugging up your back and runing its fingers up your spine, the best thing to do-the only thing-is run.
Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.
There’s always some relief in giving up.
Most of the time one night blends into the next and weeks blend into weeks and months into other months. And sooner or later we all die. But at the beginning of the night anything’s possible.
No wonder the regulators decided on segregation of boys and girls: Otherwise, it would have been a nightmare, this feeling angry and self-conscious and confused and annoyed all the time.
Hunky Heroes, rescuing distressed women, captive princesses, and girls without wheels since 1684. p. 450.
Time jumps. It leaps. It pours away like water through fingers.
Somewhere in the endless spinning of eternity that one, tiny, fraction of a second where our lips met is lost forever.
Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us – long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.
Fear. Blame. Don’t forget. Mom. I love you. -Lauren Oliver, Delerium.
If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing...
My heart shoots into my throat every time I think I see his loping walk, or catch sight of some floppy brown hair on a boy – but it’s never him, and each time it isn’t, my heart does a reverse trajectory down into the very pit of my stomach.
I want to be healed and whole and perfect again, like a misshapen slab of iron that comes out of the fire glowing, glittering, razor-sharp.
Rainstorms are incredible: falling shards of glass, the air full of diamonds.
Finishing books – and leaving the world you’ve created – is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.
And when I wake up it’s wonderful, like I’ve been carried quietly onto a calm, peaceful shore, and the dream, and its meaning, has broken over me like a wave and is ebbing away now, leaving me with a single, solid certainty. I know now.