But...books are so much more. Some of them are webs; you can feel your way along their threads, but just barely, into strange and dark corners. Some of them are balloons bobbing up through the sky: totally self-contained, and unreachable, but beautiful to watch. And some of them―the best ones―are doors.

No one can tell us no. No one can make us stop. We have picked each other and the rest of the world can go to hell.

My stomach gets that hollowed-out feeling. It's amazing how words can do that, just shred your insides apart.

Amor deliria nervosa isn't a disease of love. It's a disease of selfishness.

Are you ever afraid to go to sleep? Afraid of what comes next?” He smiles a sad little smile and I swear it’s like he knows. “Sometimes I’m afraid of what I’m leaving behind,” he says.

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.

She was mine before she was yours.