I am beginning to measure myself in strength, not pounds. Sometimes in smiles.

Too much sun after a Syracuse winter does strange things to your head, makes you feel strong, even if you aren't.

I lift my arm out of the water. It's a log. Put it back under and it blows up even bigger. People see the log and call it a twig. They yell at me because I can't see what they see. Nobody can explain to me why my eyes work different than theirs. Nobody can make it stop.

You can tell a book is real when your heart beats faster. Real books make you sweat. Cry, if no one is looking. Real books help you make sense of your crazy life. Real books tell it true, don't hold back and make you stronger. But most of all, real books give you hope. Because it's not always going to be like this and books-the good ones, the ones-show you how to make it better. Now.

Apologies mean nothing if you don't mean it.

I understood what triggered her earthquakes, most of them.

It doesn't hurt. Nothing hurts except the small smiles and blushes that flash across the room like tiny sparrows.