You must hurt, or be hurt.

That's all I want. Just you and me. Always.

Is it possible to tell the truth in a society of lies? Or must you always, of necessity, become a liar?

Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.

As Steve draws me closer to the band, all I can see is a frenzied mass of seething, writhing people, like a many-headed sea snake, grinding, waving their arms, stamping their feet, jumping. No rules, just energy - so much energy, you could harness it; I bet you could power Portland for a decade. It is more than a wave. It's a tide, an ocean of bodies.

My heart shoots into my throat every time I think I see his loping walk, or catch sight of some floppy brown hair on a boy - but it's never him, and each time it isn't, my heart does a reverse trajectory down into the very pit of my stomach.

Black is too morbid; red will set them on edge; pink is too juvenile; orange is freakish