I play until my fingers are blue and stiff from the cold, and then I keep on playing. Until I'm lost in the music. Until I am the music--notes and chords, the melody and harmony. It hurts, but it's okay because when I'm the music, I'm not me. Not sad. Not afraid. Not desperate. Not guilty.

You are a ghost, Andi," she says. "Almost gone." I look at her. I want to say something but I can't get the words out. She squeezes my hands. "Come back to us," she says. And she's gone.

Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

The more obscure our tastes, the greater the proof of our genius.

Make them care, Mattie,' she said softly. 'And don't you ever be sorry.' -Emily Wilcox

One expects decent people to stand up for the good of all. Decent people shut their doors and hide behind them as decent people do. Massacres could never happen if it weren't for decent people.

I was only glad to be saved and never once thought to ask why.