There is so much fragility in kissing, in other people: It is all glass.

"And I love you too." His fingers skate the edge of my jaw, dance briefly over my lips. "You should know that. You have to know that."

This is what amazes me: that people are new every day. That they are never the same. You must always invent them, and they must always invent themselves, too.

But now I give in, let the anger surge. I'm sick of people acting like this world, this other world is the normal one, while I'm the freak. It's not fair; like all the rules have suddenly changed and somebody forgot to tell me.

You don't reach points in life at which everything is sorted out for us. I believe in endings that should suggest our stories always continue.

I know what the problem is, of course. The disorientation, the distraction, the difficulty focusing - all classic Phase One signs of deliria. But I don't care. If pneumonia felt this good I'd stand out in the snow in the winter with bare feet and no coat, or march into the hospital and kiss pneumonia patients

Dystopian novels help people process their fears about what the future might look like; further, they usually show that there is always hope, even in the bleakest future.