I wonder if this is how people always get close: They heal each other's wounds; they repair the broken skin.

The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark; but you are supposed to go through them.

The flip side of freedom is this: When you're completely free, you're also completely on your own.

But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosion of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?

Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.

The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow? And the word was: Yes.

What does it feel like to be infected?" "I-- I can't describe it." I force the words out. Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. His skin smells like smoke from a wood fire, like soap, like heaven. I imagine tasting his skin; I imagine biting his lips. "I want to know." His words are a whisper, barely audible. "I want to know with you.