When the music is over, she keeps her head down till she finds her seat again, and I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.

Wanna rock you, girl, with a butterfly tunic. / No, I'm not gay, I'm just your emo enuch. / Gonna smile real shy, won't cop a feel, / 'cause I'm your virgin crush, your supersafe deal. / Let those other guys keep sexing. / You and me, we be texting / 'bout unicorns and rainbows and our perfect love. / Girl, we fit together like a hand in a glove. / Now I don't mean that nasty, tell your mum don't get mad. / I even wrote 'You're awesome' on your maxi pads.

The mere suggestion of fame and fortune casts a glamour all its own. It is rather alarming how quickly people will turn someone else's fiction into fact in order to support their own fictions of themselves.

I hate high heels. Walking in high heels for eight hours a day should be forbidden by the Geneva Convention.

When the music is over, she keeps her head down till she finds her seat again, and I wonder how many times each day she dies a little.

There is no greater power on this earth than story.

The dark does not weep for itself because there is no light. Rather, it accepts that it is the dark.