Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That’s another reason I can’t read anymore.
It is a ruined-world, a nonsense-place.
Funny how certain things stay with you.
Everything I see and touch reminds me of him, and so everything I see and touch is perfect.
Even the greatest movements on earth, have their beginnings with something small.
If you want something, if you take it for your own, you’ll always be taking it from someone else.
The reason you can never go home again isn’t necessarily that places change, but people do. So nothing ever looks the same.
The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark; but you are supposed to go through them.
Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.
The idea – the fact of it, the fact that he even noticed and thought about me for more than one second – is huge and overwhelming, makes my legs go tingly and my hands feel numb.
An itchy feeling began to work its way through my body, as though a thousand mosquitoes were circulating through my blood, biting me from the inside, making me want to scream, jump, squirm. I ran.
Through wind, and tempest, storm, and rain; The calm shall be buried inside of me; A warm stone, heavy and dry; The root, the source, a weapon against pain.
I’ve been trying so hard not to think his name, not to even breathe the idea of him.
We can never understand. We can only try, fumbling our way through the tunneled places, reaching for light.
Something must die so that others can live.
I need him to know that I came for him. I need him to know that somehow, at some point in the tunnels, I began to love him.
They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.
This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.
Droplets, droplets: we are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.
There is so much fragility in kissing, in other people: It is all glass.