Unhappiness is bondage; therefore, happiness is freedom.

Things change after you die, though, I guess because dying is the loneliest thing you can do.

Somewhere in the endless spinning of eternity that one, tiny, fraction of a second where our lips met is lost forever.

And for a moment―for a split second―everything else falls away, the whole pattern and order of my life, and a huge joy crests in my chest. I am no one, and I owe nothing to anybody, and my life is my own.

They couldn’t have known that even this was a lie—that we never really choose, not entirely. We are always being pushed and squeezed down one road or another. We have no choice but to step forward, and then step forward again, and then step forward again; suddenly we find ourselves on a road we haven’t chosen at all. But maybe happiness isn’t in the choosing. Maybe it’s in the fiction, in the pretending: that wherever we have ended up is where we intended to be all along.

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

I hate skin; I hate bones and bodies. I want to curl up inside of him and be carried there forever.