Fake it till you make it actually worked.

It's a good thing Kerry's dead, because that funeral would've sent him over the edge," Henry said.

Every fiction has its base in fact.

I want you to play me like a cello.

Because I understand all the ways of trying to escape, how sometimes you escape one prison only to find you've built yourself a different one.

My first impulse is not to grab her or kiss her or yell at her. I simple want to touch her cheek, still flushed from the night's performance. I want to cut through the space that separates us, measured in feet-not miles, not continents, not years-and to take a callused finger to her face.

He gives me a little shrug, like, of course, why else? And at this point, I really have no right to be surprised by people's capacity for kindness and generosity, but still, I am. I'm floored every time.