Phone Calls Like Ours Only Happen When

It's A Mystery Of Human Chemistry And I Don't Understand It, Some People, As Far As Their Senses Are Concerned, Just Feel Like Home.

I Couldn’t Bear To Think About The Proper Future, So I Just Tried To Make Things Better For The Next Twenty Minutes Or So, Over And Over Again.

It's Music Rage, Which Is Like Road Rage, Only More Righteous. When You Get Road Rage, A Tiny Part Of You Knows You're Being A Jerk, But When You Get Music Rage, You're Carrying Out The Will Of God, And God Wants These People Dead.

I Don't Even Feel As If I'm The Center Of My Own World, So How Am I Supposed To Feel As Though I'm The Center Of Anyone Else's?

She Was Trying To Say Something Else; She Was Trying To Say That The Inability To Articulate What One Feels In Any Satisfactory Way Is One Of Our Enduring Tragedies. It Wouldn't Have Been Much, And It Wouldn't Have Been Useful, But It Would Have Been Something That Reflected The Gravity And The Sadness Inside Her. Instead, She Had Snapped At Him For Being A Loser. It Was As If She Were Trying To Find A Handhold On The Boulder Of Her Feelings, And Had Merely Ended Up With Grit Under Her Nails.