Everything ends, people move on, they don’t look back. It’s how they should be.
Suicide. A sideways word, a word that people whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors. It was only in dreams that I heard the word shouted, screamed.
Don’t worry about what you’re writing or whether it’s good or even whether it makes sense.
One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world – your little carved-out sphere – is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
Nothing exists but him.
People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
I reach out and grab her wrist. It feels impossibly tiny in my hand, like this one time I found a baby bird near goose Point, and I picked it up and it died there, taking its final gasping fluttering breaths in my palm.
Everyone you trust, everyone you think you can count on, will eventually disappoint you.
That’s what Zombieland is: frozen, calm, quiet.
It’s the time of the night I like best, when most people are asleep and it feels like the world belongs completely to my friends and me, as though nothing exists apart from out little circle: everywhere else is darkness and quiet.
I screamed until my voice dried up in my throat. We all did. All of us in Ward Six, all of us forgotten, left to rot.
Funny how time heals. Like that bullet in my ribs. It’s there, I know it’s there, but I can barely feel it at all anymore.
Amor deliria nervosa. The deadliest of all deadly things.
It’s an incredible thing, how you can feel so taken care of by someone and yet feel, also, like you would die or do anything just for the chance to protect him back.
Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.
It is war now, and armies need symbols.
Sometimes I feel like she deserves a best friend who is just a little more special.
For a second I feel a rush of sadness: for the horizons that vanish behind us, for the people we leave behind, the tiny-doll selves that get stored away and ultimately buried.
If you cross a line and nothing happens, the line loses meaning.
It’s going to be okay. Words that mean nothing. really, just sounds intoned into vastness and darkness, little scrabbling attempts to latch on to something when we’re falling.