It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

They never exhale, the trees; on a very windy day, they rustle and inhale, and then the leaves and the branches all tremble as though something means to strangle the life from them. The sky watches on. The world is filled with anticipation, as if to wonder if this day will be a great day, or a horrible day, or the last day.

The trick was looking past the illusion, because the exit was never as far away as it seemed.

I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.

I want to make a world more magical than my own. I don't care if it makes sense, I don't care if it's ridiculed or if, rather than a neat round planet that goes around forever, it ends with a cliff that falls off into nothing. I want to have my eyes wide open, and I want to see this room and at the same time, not this room.

I used to have only one name; it used to mean something.

It was my fifth grade teacher who introduced the idea that writing could be more than a hobby for me.