As I rolled over, stretching out, my only thought was to go back to the dream I'd been having, which I couldn't remember, other than that it had been good, in that distant, hopeful way unreal things can be.

'So,' he said as we turned onto the main road, the muffler rattling, 'I've been thinking.' 'Yeah?' He nodded. 'You really need to go out with me.' I blinked. 'I'm sorry?' 'You know. You, me. A restaurant or movie. Together.' He glanced over, shifting gears. 'Maybe it's a new concept for you? If so, I'll be happy to walk you through it.' 'You want to take me to a movie?' I asked. 'Well, not really,' he said. 'What I really want is for you to be my girlfriend. But I though saying that might scare you off.'

Everything looks different when you're older, not staring up at the world but down upon it.

Maybe you could go backwards and forwards at the same time, but it wasn't easy. You had to want to.

It’s never something huge that changes the everything, but instead the tiniest of details, irrevocably tweaking the balance of the universe while you’re busy focusing on the big picture.

You need demarcation." "Demarcation?" I asked. "It means a clear separation between two things," he told me. "A solid end before a clean beginning. No murky borders. Clarity.

I am not breaking my rules,' I snapped, hating that I'd ended up on the advice-recieving end of things, jumping from Dear Remy to Confused in Cincinnati all in one summer.