I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.

I think that maybe forgiveness is like change - it comes in small steps. (256)

I just think perfection and lasting through the ages is for Greek statues, not us mere humans.

You've always been two people. The Jenna who wants to please and the Jenna who secretly resents in. They won't break, you know. Your parents never thought you were perfect. You did.

Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?

Maybe staying on the surface keeps her from returning to a place where she can't breathe.

When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?