What kind of world is this? And what do you do about it? What do you do when the worst thing that can happen actually happens?

You have to see the miracles for there to be miracles.

No hot guys should be allowed to have an English accent and drive a motorcycle. Not to mention wear the leather jacket or sport the cool shades. Hot guys should be forced into footie pajamas.

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

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.

Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?

I gasp, because Isn't that just exactly what I've been doing too: writing poems and scattering them to the winds with the same hope as Gram that someone, someday, somewhere might understand who I am, who my sister was, and what happened to us.