That's the way I feel, at least: like there's a real me and a reflection of me, and I have no way of telling which is which.

Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose, either. If we didn't get out hearts stomped on, shattered; if we didn't have to patch and repatch it until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together by who knows what

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

It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.

Hate isn’t the most dangerous thing, he’d said. Indifference is.

I feel an overwhelming rush of sadness... I'm just struck with a sense of time passing so quickly, rushing forward. One day I'll wake up and my whole life will be behind me, and it will seem to have gone as quickly as a dream.

It strikes me how strange people are. You can see them every day - you can think you know them - and then you fшnd out you hardly know them at all.