I can pick a lock. How do you think I got into my parents' liquor cabinet in middle school?

What was love, really? Flowers, chocolate, and poetry? Or was it something else? Was it being able to finish someone's jokes? Was it having absolute faith that someone was there at your back? Was it knowing someone so well that they instantly understood why you did the things you did—and shared those same beliefs?

Are we going to New Orleans?" "No", she said, backing out of the spot. "We're going to West Virginia." "I assume by 'West Virginia,' you actually mean 'Hawaii,'" I said. "Or some place equally exciting.

Is it possible to specialize in more than one element?" She laughed and shook her head. "No. Too much power. No one could handle all that magic, not without losing her mind." Oh. Great.

I found the candles—atrocious air freshening ones that smelled like fake pine.

That's the great thing about being a writer. You dream up amazing questions... and then dream up even more amazing answers.

Rose once told me about this poem she’d read. There was this line, ‘If your eyes weren’t open, you wouldn’t know the difference between dreaming and waking.’ You know what I’m afraid of? That someday, even with my eyes open, I still won’t know.