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

Then I think of the dark, and the lights, and the roaring, and Juliet, and before I can think of anything else, I fight the final few steps to the door and step out into the cold, where the rain is still coming down like shards of moonlight, or like steel.

She was mine before she was yours.

And I guess that's when it starts to hit me: the whole point is, you do what you can.

I'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.

And there it is: Even though we’re standing in the same patch of sun-drenched pavement, we might as well be a hundred thousand miles apart.

Everyone you trust, everyone you think you can count on, will eventually disappoint you.