Hunky Heroes, rescuing distressed women, captive princesses, and girls without wheels since 1684. p. 450

Once Mo had closed the gates, he returned to his little stone hut, and his half-eaten sandwich of butter and canned sardines, and his mug of thick hot chocolate, which every night he poured carefully into a thermos labeled COFFEE.

They told us love was a disease. They told us it would kill us in the end. For the very first time I realize, that this, too, might also be a lie.

Fridays are the hardest in some ways: you’re so close to freedom.

I’m with Julian,” I say at last. This, after all, is what I have chosen.

Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.

It is a ruined-world, a nonsense-place.