Each of us has a family tree full of stories inside of us, Dirk thought. Each of us has a story blossoming out of us.

You can't doubt so much, Psyche

If you were a mermaid, you said, If you were a mermaid, I was the sea.

There’s nowhere to escape,” Dobey said, jamming his hands into his pockets and staring into the Valley. That’s not true, baby,” said Desiree. She took his hands and pulled him to her, wrapping her legs around his torso. She could feel the sobs in both of them, but quiet, silenced by the kiss. They could escape inside each other.

He said that black sheeps express everyone else's anger and pain. It's not that they have all the anger and pain-they're just the only ones who let it out. Then the other people don't have to.

Just like any woman,...we weave our stories out of our bodies. Some of us through our children, or our art; some do it just by living. It's all the same.

What happens to the rest of something when you smash its heart?