And sometimes, he was less lucid. He'd run around his cell like a caged animal; he'd rock back and forth; he'd swing from topic to topic as if it was the only way to cross the jungle of his thoughts.

People had figured out all sorts of ways to make things seem different than they truly were.

but if I've learned anything, it's that we don't know half of what we think we do. And we know ourselves least of all.

How could he convey to someone who'd never even met her the way she always smelled like rain, or how his stomach knotted up every time he saw her shake loose her hair from its braid? How could he describe how it felt when she finished his sentences, turnec the mug they were sharing so that her mouth landed where his had been? How did he explain the way they could be in a locker room, or underwater, or in the piney woods of Maine, bus as long as Em was with him, he was at home?

It was nice not having to be the one in control, for a little while. It was nice to be the one who was protected, instead of the one who'd been protecting eveyone else.

Can you imagine what it would be like to know that your life was just going to be a series of days that were all the same, that were do-overs?

eskimos maybe? believed stars were holes in the sky where people who died could peek through at you