This is one of my favorite things about the Underground: the crashing of the cymbals, the screeching guitar riffs, music that moves into the blood and makes you feel hot and wild and alive.
She liked that word: we. It sounded warm and open, like a hug.
What I meant was, you looked happier in the pictures.
This is the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you.
The most dangerous sicknesses are those that make us believe we are well
Black is too morbid; red will set them on edge; pink is too juvenile; orange is freakish