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

The Wilds aren't safe anymore.

Droplets, droplets: we are all identical drips and drops of people, hovering, waiting to be tipped, waiting for someone to show us the way, to pour us down a path.

Nothing has ever been so painful or delicious as being so close to him and being unable to do anything about it: like eating ice cream so fast on a hot day you get a splitting headache.

And you should hear the music. Incredible, amazing music, like nothing you've ever heard, music that almost takes your head off, you know? That makes you want to scream and jump up and down and break stuff and cry.

Most people don't want to be saved. Besides, if you keep bailing everybody out, they'll never learn to paddle on their own.

We're killers, all of us: We kill our lives, our past selves, the things that mattered. We bury them under slogans and excuses.