Life’s a freaking mess… there’s not one truth ever, just a bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It’s all a beautiful calamitous mess.

At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.

I wish my shadow would get up and walk beside me.

That's exactly it—I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

People die, I think, but your relationship with them doesn't. It continues and is ever-changing.

But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?