If you end your story, it's a static work of art, a finite circle. But if you don't, it belongs to anyone's imagination. It stays alive forever.

For better or for worse, music is the language of memory. It is also the language of love.

The optimist in me wants to believe sexuality will eventually become like handwriting: there’s no right way and wrong way to do it. We’re all just wired differently. It's also worth noting that when you meet someone, you never bother to ask if he’s right or left-handed. After all: does it really matter to anyone other than the person holding the pen?

I found plain truth very interesting.

This was the reason there was music, he realized. There were some feelings that didn't have words big enough to describe them.

There was no black or white. Someone who had been good her entire life could, in fact, do something evil. People were just as capable of committing murder, under the right circumstances, as any monster.

Just because you didn't speak the facts out loud didn't erase their existence. Silence was just a quieter way to lie.