Well, but you can eat Grandma's cookies. They're not bad for you. They were made by Grandma. Grandma wouldn't hurt you.

You may be smart, but I've been smart longer.

Our lives are composed of a finite set of moments that we choose how to spend.

Cold,” he said, pressing a finger to my pale wrist. “Not cold so much as underoxygenated,” I said. “I love it when you talk medical to me,” he said. He stood, and pulled me up with him, and did not let go of my hand until we reached the stairs.

But monotony doesn't make for painlessness.

Of course I tensed up when he touched me. To be with him was to hurt him-inevitably. And that's what I'd felt as he reached for me: I'd felt as though I were committing an act of violence against him, because I was.

And okay, fair enough, but there is this unwritten contract between author and reader and I think not ending your book kind of violates that contract.