He leaned over to kiss the top of my head, and then groaned. I looked at him, puzzled. "You smell so good in the rain," he explained. "In a good way, or in a bad way?" I asked cautiously. He sighed. "Both, always both.

It's important for me to be free and know I'm acting for myself. I do things because I want to, and that's important. You want to be your own person.

Books have been thought of as windows to another world of imagination

How old are you?” she asked. My answer was automatic and ingrained. “Seventeen.” “And how long have you been seventeen?” I tried not to smile at the patronizing tone. “A while,” I admitted. “Okay,” she said, abruptly enthusiastic. She smiled up at me.

Perhaps there could be no joy on this planet without an equal weight of pain to balance it out on some unknown scale.

He looks at you like... like you're something to eat.

Stupid, shiny Volvo owner.