The sky is everywhere, it begins at your feet.

It's as if someone vacuumed up the horizon while we were looking the other way.

Life's a freaking mess. In fact, I'm going to tell Sarah we need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram's right, 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. It's like the day Mr. James took us into the woods and cried triumphantly, "That's it! That's it!" to the dizzying cacophony of soloing instruments trying to make music together. That is it.

I don't know how the heart withstands it.

I didn't know love felt like this, like turning into brightness.

It's such a colossal effort not to be haunted by what's lost, but to be enchanted by what was.

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