Underwear. It's like a god damned leash. It also constantly reminds me of how funny I look naked.

I want so badly to tell Her it’s going to be all right, that I’ll leave the band and forget this silly crusade. I want to tell Her that I am ready to settle for this life, that she is all I will ever need in the world, and that we’ll never be apart. I want to tell Her that I will protect Her forever. But none of that would be the truth. So I don’t say anything at all.

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.

I was a superlate bloomer, and I was kind of a prude. I always wanted to be able to keep the number of people I've had sex with very low, because I never wanted to have to tell my future wife, "Oh, yeah, I was with 30 people."

It was the single best sexual encounter I've ever had. We were in the Soho Grand Hotel, and there was a mirror, and I was like, 'Oh my God, you're banging the girl of your dreams and you're watching it right now.'

The stars crossed and The Boy wished he could have hung himself on them.

The silence is the worst part of any fight, because it's made up of all the things we wish we could say, if only we had the guts.