The world, a tired performer, offers us another half-assed season.

that since Cecilia’s suicide, the Lisbon’s could hardly wait for the night to forget themselves in sleep

All sixteen mentioned her jutting ribs, the insubstantiality of her thighs, and one, who went up to the roof with Lux during a warm winter rain, told us how the basins of her collarbones collected water.

girls forbidden to dance would only attract husbands with bad complexions and sunken chests.

Scars crossed her welded wrists.

I had a briefcase at one point, but it was a kind of 1980s New Wave briefcase. It was made of some kind of cardboard and it had metal hinges. It was kind of faux industrial looking, and I used to carry my books in it rather than a backpack. I didn't want to have normal student accoutrements.

I live my own life and nurse my own wounds. It's not the best way to live. But it's the way I am.