Or maybe a person is just made up of a lot of peopleMaybe we’re accumulating these new selves all the time. Hauling them in as we make choices, good and bad, as we screw up, step up, lose our minds, find our minds, fall apart, fall in love, as we grieve, grow, retreat from the world, dive into the world, as we make things, as we break things.

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

I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.

If bad luck knows who you are, become someone else.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

The Color Of Extraordinary.

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