I barely notice colors unless I taste them. Not the yellows or the greens. I taste the deeper blues. The darker reds.

Fate has a strange way of making plans.

Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths. Composure. Which, for me, means composing... Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it's just a story I'm telling or a song I'm singing, then I'll be okay because I'm the guy who's providing the words.

I wake up thinking of yesterday. The joy is in remembering; the pain is in knowing it was yesterday.

I preferred to hang out with the dead, dying, or desperate books - used we call them, in a way that we'd never call a person, unless we meant it cruelly

Even when I detach, I care. You can be separate from a thing and still care about it. If I wanted to detach completely, I would move my body away. I would stop the conversation midsentence. I would leave the bed. Instead, I hover over it for a second. I glance off in another direction. But I always glance back at you.

everyone in our school has afterschool activities. mine is going home.