He wasn't what I'd thought he was; maybe he never had been. I wasn't what I'd thought I was, either.

But the original was there as well—more jaded and rudimentary, functional rather than romantic. It fit not just the yellow house but another door, deep within my own heart. One that had been locked so tight for so long that I was afraid to even try it for fear of what might be on the other side

I looked at the sweatshirt again. "'You swim' is a philosophy?" He shrugged. "Better than 'you sink', right?

talk was cheap and useless. Action was what mattered. And me, I was moving. Now, again, always.

But God!Who could live like this , anyway, with the kind of guesswork that was enough to make a person crazy, just sailing along, taking bumps here and there, no course navigated whatsoever, with any big wave capable of just tipping and sinking you entirely. IT was madness, stipidity, and- (then I saw him)

The language of solace, and comets, and the girls we all become, in the end.

I think part of the problem sometimes is that there's so much happening in my books, to whittle it down into a single script is hard.