Why do some memories bleed out of nowhere and others stay locked behind doors?

There are so many things I can't believe. That people deserve what they get, both bad and good. That one day I'll live in a world where people are judged by what they do instead of who they are. That happy endings don't have contingencies and conditions.

I close my eyes, thinking that there is nothing like an embrace after an absence, nothing like fitting my face into the curve of his shoulder and filling my lungs with the scent of him.

The only person who suffers, when you squirrel alway all that hate, is you.

This must be what an addict feels like, I think, trying to fight the pull of one last, quick read. My fingers itch toward the binding, and finally, with a sigh of regret, I just grab the book and open it, hungrily reading the story.

I would prove to you that being different isn't a death sentence but a call to arms.

Energy can't be destroyed, only converted into something different. So when a person dies, where does that energy go?