For males twenty-five is the fatal age. For women it's twenty. We are all dropping like flies.

There's a hazy smile on her lips that won't go away, and her hair is a mess. It's like a brushfire filled with casualties.

We writers are resilient souls.

And everywhere girls, tumbling from trees like orange blossoms and hitting the earth with sickening thuds. They crack open.

Give me time" "For you, always.

Everyone should remember being born. It doesn't seem fair that we only remember dying.

I wonder if she has figured out that I'll never love Linden, especially not in the way she does, and that he'll never love anyone the way he loves her. I wonder if she realizes, despite all her efforts to train me, that I can never take her place.