There she is, lying in front of me, smoking a cigarette, thinking of something or someone else. And that’s how she is stuck in my mind forever. We are two explorers in the dark. Mapless and hopeless. Alone together.

I wonder if killing yourself is the only thing you can control in your entire life, and that's why it's a sin. Because you're beating God at his own game.

We’re sick of hearing people say, “That band is so gay,” or “Those guys are fags.” Gay is not a synonym for shitty. If you wanna say something’s shitty, say it’s shitty. Stop being such homophobic assholes.

He hugged her tight, mixing their tears to be bottled and fermented, so they could be drunk on each other when this was all over.

Let’s just make it through tonight, worry about the rest later.

This story never really had a point. It’s just a lull - a skip in the record. We are addresses in ghost towns. We are old wishes that never came true. We are hand grenades (and every word you say pulls the pin). We are all gods, we are all monsters.

My wife and I have created our own language. We can be at a table with six other people and have an argument without anyone knowing. It doesn't even have to be out loud. It's bizarre.