What Is Real Is Always Worth It.

The Word Rattled In My Head Like Rocks In An Oatmeal Box.

You Paid For Every Second Of Beauty You Managed To Steal.

A Novel Is Like A Dream In Which Everyone Is You. They’re All Parts Of Yourself.

No Matter How Unappealing, Each Of Them Imagines He Is Somehow Worthy.

I Understood Why She Did It. At That Moment I Knew Why People Tagged Graffiti On The Walls Of Neat Little Houses And Scratched The Paint On New Cars And Beat Up Well-tended Children. It Was Only Natural To Want To Destroy Something You Could Never Have.