If I made a joke about just dropping by, would you write me off as cliché?

I can offer you my life, but it is a short life; I can offer you my heart, though I have no idea how many more beats it shall sustain

But you hate poetry! Yes, but you make me want to write it.

The kitchen was bright, cheerful yellow, the walls decorated with framed chalk and pencil sketches Simon and Rebecca had done in grade school. Rebecca had some drawing talent, you could tell, but Simon's sketches of people all looked like parking meters with tufts of hair.

"Is standing by the window muttering about blood something he does all the time?" asked Simon. "No," Jace said. "Sometimes he sits on the couch and does it."

Magnus, standing by the door, snapped his fingers impatiently. "Move it along, teenagers. The only person who gets to canoodle in my bedroom is my magnificent self." "Canoodle?" repeated Clary, never having heard the word before. "Magnificent?" repeated Jace, who was just being nasty. Magnus growled. The growl sounded like "Get out.

They think they're better than everyone else." "No," said Jace. "I think I'm better than everyone else. An opinion that has been backed up with ample evidence." Kyle looked at Simon. "Does he always talk like this?" "Yes.