Her mind is a bird that's trapped inside her skull, flapping and thrashing, never breaking free.

He looks at me, and I don't know what he sees. I used to think it was Rose. But she's not here with us now, in this room. It's just him and me, and the books. I feel like our lives are in those books. I feel like all the words on the pages are for us.

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.

Tell freedom I said hello.' 'If I happen to see it, I will.

The sullen boy sitting before me is not my husband, and the girl he is fretting over isn't me, will never be me.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.