Hiding under the bed doesn't make the worry stop.

I have the feeling that I know who I am, only I'm not anymore.

...When this map was made, there was only empty forest in the south," Gran told Birle."Not empty," Granda corrected her. "The forest is never empty.

The worst things weren't outside of you.

I didnt write anything at all except book reports until I was in seventh grade, and then I wrote mostly poetry for myself.

Maybe life was like a sea, and all the people were like boats ... Everybody who was born was cast into the sea. Winds would blow them in all directions. Tides would rise and turn, in their own rhythm. And the boats - they just went along as best they could, trying to find a harbor.

You must not let yourself become too respectable. Keep yourself a little wild. What is life for, if not for the living of it?