I have had to give up so much, so many selves and lives already. I have grown up and out of the rubble of my old lives, of things and people I have cared for...
It is a beautiful world for the people who get to play the fist.
I’m so tired after dinner I fall asleep with my clothes on, almost as soon as my head hits the pillow, and so I forget to ask God, in my prayers, to keep me from waking up.
You can’t tell me what to feel.
Most of the time – 99 percent of the time – you just don’t know how and why the threads are looped together, and that’s okay. Do a good thing and something bad happens. Do a bad thing and something good happens. Do nothing and everything explodes.
Grief is like sinking, like being buried.
Life isn’t life if you just float through it.
Holy mother of Lord Cocoa Puffs.
I close my eyes. An image flashes – emerging from the van with Julian after our escape from New York City; believing, in that moment, that we had escaped the worst, that life would begin again for us. Instead life has only grown harder.
We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forward again; suddenly we find ourselves on a road we haven’t chosen at all.
Love. I love you. I’ll always love you, my love. You are the love of my life.
His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.
For a second I think about how easy it would be to pass back to the other side, to walk straight into the laboratories and offer myself up to the surgeons. You were right; I was wrong. Get it out.
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.
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.
We’re killers, all of us: We kill our lives, our past selves, the things that mattered. We bury them under slogans and excuses.
Everyone just wasting time because they have so much of it to waste, minutes slipping by on who’s with who and did you hear.
I am now officially married to Fred Hargrove. Nothing will ever be the same.
This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
The mark of the procedure. A real one. Lu is cured.