Children see magic because they look for it.
If you think anyone is sane you just don’t know enough about them. The key — and this is very relevant in our case — is to find someone whose insanity dovetails with your own.
Only by being prepared for your death can you ever truly live.
He loved constantly, instantly, spontaneously, without thought or words. That's what he taught me. Love is not something you think about, it is a state in which you dwell. That was his gift.
Nobody's perfect... Well, there was this one guy, but we killed him.
It's wildly irritating to have invented something as revolutionary as sarcasm, only to have it abused by amateurs.
Faith isn't an act of intelligence, it's an act of imagination.
Boredom can be a lethal thing on a small island.
Routine feeds the illusion of safety.
Not unlike the toaster, I control darkness.
If you think anyone is sane you just don't know enough about them.
That's the scary thing about hope," she said. "If you let it go too long it turns into faith.
Sometimes this high-tech world calls for low-tech solutions.
Unless you can change the past, you’re wasting the present on this guilt
The value of the work we do is the value we give to it.
Like most Beta Males, he didn't realize that being a good guy was not necessarily an attraction to women.
Why understand when you can believe?
One of them hissed-not the hiss of a cat, a long, steady tone-more like the hiss of air escaping the rubber raft that is all that lies between you and a dark sea full of sharks, the hiss of your life leaking out at the seams.
Turtles hate heights. They don't even like being a few feet off the ground. It's the main reason they have resisted evolution for so long-fear of heights. Turtle thinking goes thus: Sure, first our scales turn into feathers and the next thing you know we're flying and chirping and perching on trees. We've seen it happen. Thanks, but we're staying right here in the mud where we belong. You're not going to see us flying full-tilt boogie into a sliding glass door.
An adventure story is fear recalled in comfort.
Love needs room to grow. Like a rose. Or a tumor.
Blessed are the dumbfucks.
Oh, we are but soft and squishy bags of mortality rolling in a bin of sharp circumstance, leaking life until we collapse, flaccid, into our own despair.
You think you know how this story is going to end, but you don't.
Little-boy love...the cleanest pain I've ever known. Love without desire, conditions, or limits - a pure and radiant glow in the heart that could make me giddy and sad and glorious all at once. Where does it go? Why, in all their experiments, did the Magi never try to capture that purity in a bottle? Perhaps they couldn't.
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