What you do, the way you think, makes you beautiful.
You see, freedom has a way of destroying things.
Maybe that was the price of loving someone: You lost your grasp of where they ended and you began.
The flowers were so beautiful, so delicate and unthreatening, but they choked everything around them.
Fuzzy Tally is no more.
Good books make you ask questions. Bad readers want everything answered.
We don’t always get to choose what we love.
A little drama wins more friends than boring.
The lie took form as she spoke, pulling on as many strands of truth as it could reach.
Not everything made you stronger. It was possible to survive, yet still be crippled for your trouble. Sometimes it was okay to run away, to skip the test, to chicken out. Or at least to get some help.
People only worry about the uncanny for about a week; that’s the end of their attention span. After that, suspicions turn into shtick.
The Internet is global and seemingly omniscient, while iPods and phones are all microscopic workings encased in plastic blobjects. Compare that to a steam engine, where you can watch the pistons move and feel the heat of its boilers. I think we miss that visceral appeal of the machine.
Tally wondered if you could talk somebody out of their brain damage.
All that glitters is not hovery.
The early summer sky was the color of cat vomit. Of course, Tally thought, you’d have to feed your cat only salmon-flavored cat food for a while, to get the pinks right.
When the term machine gun enters common parlance, the word machine becomes much more sinister.
What did a happy ending even mean in real life, anyway? In stories you simply said, ‘They lived happily ever after,’ and that was it. But in real life people had to keep on living, day after day, year after year.
Typographical laziness was slowly destroying our culture, according to Lexa and her pals. Inexactitude was death.
Tally turned away. Five minutes was suddenly too long to stand here, eyes burning, unable to cry.
Irony is always the best weapon against fascism.