You Live For Pretentious Metaphors.

The Snow May Be Falling In The Winter Of My Discontent, But At Least I've Got Sarcastic Company.

You Will Go To The Paper Towns And Never Come Back.

And Imagining That Future Keeps You Going, But You Never Do It. You Just Use The Future To Escape The Present.

Do The Thing You're Good At. Not Many People Are Lucky Enough To Be So Good At Something.

The Feeling Of Loving Her And Being Loved By Her Welled Up In Him, And He Could Taste The Adrenaline In The Back Of His Throat, And Maybe It Wasn't Over, And Maybe He Could Feel Her Hand In His Again And Hear Her Loud, Brash Voice Contort Itself Into A Whisper To Say I-love-you As If It Were A Secret, And An Immense One.