The process of growing up was nothing more than figuring out what doors hadn't yet been slammed in your face.

You can't be real," Delilah murmurs. "Says who?" I ask. "Did you really think that a story exists only when you're reading it?

Heroes didn't leap tall buildings or stop bullets with an outstretched hand; they didn't wear boots and capes. They bled, and they bruised, and their superpowers were as simple as listening, or loving. Heroes were ordinary people who knew that even if their own lives were impossibly knotted, they could untangle someone else's. And maybe that one act could lead someone to rescue you right back.

Things break all the time. Day breaks, waves break, voices break. Promises break. Hearts break.

When you don't know where you're headed, you find places no one else would ever explore.

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

As an American I wanted to explore... why are we the only first world country that still has capital punishment? Is it because we're too afraid to really examine the system, or is it because we really truly believe that this is the best way to deter future crime?