It's not that I want you to be a certain way--don't you want a boyfriend?" "Why bother with that? Let's find incubi." "Incubi?" "Demons. Plural. Like octopi. And we're much more likely to find them"--her voice dropped conspiratorially--"while swimming naked in the Atlantic a week before Halloween than practically anywhere else I can think of.

The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies.

Love changes us, but we change how we love too.

You have to write a lot. And you have to rewrite what you wrote a lot more.

They say that nameless things change constantly—that names fix them in place like pins.

She knew what it felt like to tremble like that before touching someone -- desire so acute that it became despair.

Ah coffee. The sweet balm by which we shall accomplish today's tasks.