Nothing like being scolded by a hippie.

I wasn’t ready to think about the other yet: that it wasn’t that I wasn’t right for Macon, but that maybe he wasn’t right for me. There was a difference. Even for someone who things didn’t come easy for, someone like me.

Needing was so easy: it came naturally, like breathing. Being needed by someone else, though, that was the hard part. But as with giving help and accepting it, we had to do both to be made complete-like links overlapping to form a chain, or a lock finding the right key.

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

In the end, though, maybe it's not how you reach a place that matters. Just that you get there at all.

I was so scared about being discovered, but nobody came. Nobody heard. In my own ears, though, my sobs sounded primal and scary, like something I would have turned off if I'd been able to.

Life shouldn't be about the either/or. We're capable of more than that, you know?