Sometimes I think maybe they were right all along, the people on the other side in Zombieland. Maybe it would be better if we didn't love. If we didn't lose either. If we didn't get our hearts stomped on, shattered: if we didn't have to patch and repatch until we're like Frankenstein monsters, all sewn together and bound up by who knows what. If we could just float along, like snow. But how could anyone who's ever seen a summer - big explosions of green and skies lit up electric with splashy sunsets, a riot of flowers and wind that smells like honey - pick the snow?
What does it feel like to be infected?" "I-- I can't describe it." I force the words out. Can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe. His skin smells like smoke from a wood fire, like soap, like heaven. I imagine tasting his skin; I imagine biting his lips. "I want to know." His words are a whisper, barely audible. "I want to know with you.
The reason you can never go home again isn't necessarily that places change, but people do. So nothing ever looks the same.
The tunnels may be long, and twisted, and dark; but you are supposed to go through them.
I still wanted to know why. As though somebody was going to answer that for me, as though any answer would be satisfying.
Of all the miracles Po had seen in the time and space of its death, Po thought this--the absorption of another, the carrying of it--was the most bewildering and remarkable of all. Whenever Bundle separated again, Po was left with an ache of sadness that reminded the ghost of the body it had left behind.
Nothing exists but him.
Step on a crack , you'll break your mama's back. Step on a stone, you'll end up all alone. Step on a stick, you're bound to get the Sick. Watch where you tread, you'll bring out all the dead. - A common children's playground chant, usually accompanied by jumping rope or clapping.
Sarah: "Not bad. You look almost human." Lena: "Thanks." Sarah: "I said almost." Lena: "Well, then, almost thanks.
People could push and pull at you, and poke you, and probe as deep as they could go. They could even tear you apart, bit by bit. But at the heart and root and soul of you, something would remain untouched.
You must hurt, or be hurt.
Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.
...into hate, into refusal, against hope and without fear
I think of Grace and feel a sharp pain in my chest.
When he speaks again, I can tell that he's smiling. "So I guess we saved each other.
One of the strangest things about life is that it will chug on, blind and oblivious, even as your private world - your little carved-out sphere - is twisting and morphing, even breaking apart.
Are you sure you can't dematerialize? Not even a little?" "I'm sure.
I remember a story I once heard about drowning: that when you fall into cold water it's not that you drown right away but that the cold disorients you and makes you think that down is up and up is down, so you may be swimming, swimming, swimming for your life in the wrong direction, all the way toward the bottom until you sink. That's how I feel, as though everything has been turned around.
Until, one day, she wasn’t.
Because if it weren’t for me, Lena and Alex would never have been caught at all. I told on them. I was jealous.
It's too late. I've seen things...I've lost things you can't understand.
Happiness is found when no one is looking
People are like ants: Just a few of them give all the orders. And most of them spend their lives getting squashed.
I feel a flash of grief so intense it almost makes me cry out: not for what I lost, but for the chances I missed.
All of you, wherever you are: in your spiny cities, or your one-bump towns. Find it, the hard stuff, the links of metal and chink, the fragments of stone filling your stomach. And pull, and pull, and pull. I will make a pact with you: I will do it if you will do it, always and forever. Take down the walls.
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