There is an ache in my heart for the imagined beauty of a life I haven't had, from which I had been locked out, and it never goes away.

Nothing says hell has to be fire.

If love drove people mad, what would lack of love do?

I wasn't safe. I wasn't permanent. My life was a fiction I had created, like an alien who comes to earth and tries to pass as human. The affections of my friends meant nothing to me, directed, as they were, toward a person who wasn't there. There was nobody home.

I know that I am not the only person who is alone in the world. I know that others sorrow in the night. That others pick up a razor and slice into their own skin, with greater or lesser success. I know that others look at their lives and see only silent failure and disconsolation, feeding the cat, checking their email, doing the crossword. I know that I am not the only person to have lived a life like mine. I am aware. (212)

I think kissing is what separates us from the animals and makes us divine.

It's a sad thing to watch your best friend turn into somebody you don't know anymore. Or even want to know.