"Everyone is asleep. They've all been asleep for years. You seemed... awake." Alex is whispering now. He closes his eyes, opens them again. "I'm tired of sleeping."

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

...the past: It drifts, it gathers. If you are not careful, it will bury you. This is half the reason for the cure: It clean-sweeps; it makes the past, and all its pain, distant, like the barest impression on sparkling glass.

Perfection is a promise, and a reassurance that we are not wrong.

Amor deliria nervosa isn't a disease of love. It's a disease of selfishness.

I can admit, now, that I must have loved Lena. Not in an Unnatural way, but my feelings for her must have been a kind of sickness. How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?

It's Connecticut: being like the people around you is the whole point.