He never wears a watch (his own rebellion against time, against watching).
I'm not a very happy person," I told him."But sometimes I can trick myself into thinking I am.
i wish i were someone else, even though i know i'll never, ever be able to get away from what i've done and what's been done to me.
You know what’s a great metaphor for love? Sleeping beauty. Because you have to plow through this incredible thicket of thorns in order to get to beauty, and even then, when you get there, you still have to wake her up. — Tiny Cooper
I always think of each night as a song. Or each moment as a song. But now I'm seeing we don't live in a single song. We move from song to song, from lyric to lyric, from chord to chord. There is no ending here. It's an infinite playlist.
All this hoping for something- or someone- that's maybe hopeless. I'm having a hard time processing what I am supposed to believe, or if I'm even supposed to. There is too much information, and I don't like a lot of it.
But whether or not you are here, you are here—because these words are for you, and they wouldn't exist if you weren't here in some way.
I immediately suspected there was much more to it than was being said.
Be careful what you're doing, because no one is ever who you want them to be.
I know it was more than that. But it was also less than that, too.
It's only a game if there is an absence of meaning. And we've already gone too far for that.
I just needed to realize that style was like personality - it didn't always have to be consistent; it just had to be something you lived with.
apparel, n.: There are times I don’t mind doing the laundry, because folding your clothes reminds me of the shape of you.
anchor, v.: I drift, I drift, I drift, you stay.
If you want to be loved, be a lovable. It's a good place to start.
Sometimes the space between knowing what to do and actually doing it is a very short walk. Other times it is an impossible expanse.
And I'm moved, it's so beautiful. Not what I wrote, but to have it given back like this. To have her remember the words and the tune. To hear it in her voice.
Deep breaths. I am taking deep breaths. Composure. Which, for me, means composing... Maybe this is my way of creating the illusion of control over something I have no control over. Like, if it's just a story I'm telling or a song I'm singing, then I'll be okay because I'm the guy who's providing the words.
When someone breaks up with you, their beauty-- which you took such satisfaction in-- suddenly becomes unfair.
You see, Dash -- I was never the girl in your head. And you were never the boy in my head. I think we both knew that. It's only when we try to make the girl or boy in our head real that the true trouble comes. I did that with Carlos, and it was a bad failure. Be careful what you're doing, because no one is ever who you want them to be. And the less you really know them, the more likely you are to confuse them with the girl or boy in your head.
I measure the moment in the heartbeats I skip
I hate the way you talk to me, and the way you cut your hair. I hate the way you drive my car. I hate it when you stare. I hate your big dumb combat boots, and the way you read my mind. I hate you so much it makes me sick; it even makes me rhyme. I hate it, I hate the way you're always right. I hate it when you lie. I hate it when you make me laugh, even worse when you make me cry. I hate it when you're not around, and the fact that you didn't call. But mostly I hate the way I don't hate you. Not even close, not even a little bit, not even at all.
They defy gravity, as good books should.
I think they have compatible silences.
There was a pause. I was still scared by every gap in our conversation, fearing that this was it, the point where we had nothing left to say. I was still trying to impress you, and I still wanted to be impressed by you, so I could pass along pieces of your impressiveness to my friends, convincing myself this was possible.
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