If the living are haunted by the dead, then the dead are haunted by their own mistakes.

It's okay to cry as long as you're faking it.

You have endless ways you can commit suicide without dying dying.

For the first time in longer than I can remember, I feel peaceful. Not happy. Not sad. Not anxious. Not horny. Just all the higher parts of my brain closing up shop. The cerebral cortex. The cerebellum. That's where my problem is. I'm now simplifying myself. Somewhere balanced in the perfect middle between happiness and sadness. Because sponges never have a bad day.

There was no real sense of life because she had nothing to contrast it with.

A knife, it felt like a knife, and I'd discovered that despite everything that's happened, I still had an endless untapped potential for getting hurt.

It's not enough to be numbered with the grains of sand on the beach and the stars in the sky.