The town was paper, but the memories were not.

I worked hard to meet his eyes, even though they were the kind of pretty that's hard to look at.

Maybe this time she wanted to be found, and to be found by me.

Remember that time in the minivan, twenty minutes ago, when we didn't die?

People are supposed to care. It's good that people mean something to you, that you miss people when they're gone.

I always liked routine. I suppose I never found boredom very boring. I doubted I could explain it to someone like Margo but drawing circles through life struck me as a kind of reasonable insanity.

What is the point of being alive if you don't at least try to do something remarkable?