Everywhere he touches is fire. My whole body is burning up, the two of us becoming twin points of the same bright white flame.

But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs; you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.

The kidnapping, the kiss. I brought him here, after all. I rescue him an pulled him into this new life, a life of freedom and feeling.

This is what happens when you try to help people. You get screwed.

You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.

Funny how time heals. Like that bullet in my ribs. It's there, I know it's there, but I can barely feel it at all anymore.

So many things become beautiful when you really look.