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

Ashes to ashes. Garage sale to garage sale,” I said.

She has enough black eyeliner on to outline a corpse, and her skin's so pale she looks like she's just broken dawn.

What happens in the band room stays in the band room.

I thought of the one thing about home that I missed, my dad's study with its built-in, floor-to-ceiling shelves sagging with thick biographies and the black leather chair that kept me just uncomfortable enough to keep from feeling sleepy as I read.

I'm a grenade and at some point I'm going to blow up and I would like to minimize the casualties, okay?

And as paralyzing and upsetting as all the never agains were, the final leaving felt perfect. Pure. The most distilled possible form of liberation.