If I had a euro for every stupid thing I've done, I could buy the Mona Lisa.

Because that's the thing about depression. When I feel it deeply, I don't want to let it go. It becomes a comfort. I want to cloak myself under its heavy weight and breathe it into my lunges. I want to nurture it, grow it, cultivate it. It's mine. I want to check out with it, drift asleep wrapped in its arms and not wake up for a long, long time.

I pull back, gasping for breath. Reeling. His breath is ragged, and I place my hands on his cheeks to steady him. "Is this okay?" I whisper. "Are you okay?" His reply is anguished. Honest. "I love you."

I don’t understand why things always go from perfect to weird with us. It’s like we’re incapable of normal human interaction.

I don't believe in fashion. I believe in costume. Life is too short to be same person every day.

If I had a euro for every stupid thing I've done, I could buy the Mona Lisa.

I wish the world would swallow us here, whole, in this moment. And that's when it hits me that this - this - is falling in love.