That's the easy thing about falling: there is only one choice after that.

Mistake, mistake, mistake. A strange word: stinging, somehow.

I guess that's what saying good-bye is always like--like jumping off an edge. The worst part is making the choice to do it. Once you're in the air, there's nothing you can do but let go.

There's a place for everything and everyone, you know. That is the mistake they make above. They think that only certain people have a place. Only certain kinds of people belong. The rest is waste. But even waste must have a place. Otherwise it will clog and clot, and rot and fester.

He who leaps for the sky may fall, it's true. But he may also fly.

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.

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