When distractions are manifold, it's best to remember what you are supposed to be doing.
It's one of the secrets of strength: We're so much more likely to find it in the service of others than in service to ourselves.
...but the truth is that I don't feel like I can carry anyone but myself right now. The streets are empty. I am empty. Or, no--I am full of pain. It's my life that's empty.
There is the sudden. There is the eventual. And in between, there is the living.
...he hopes that maybe it'll make people a little less scared of two boys kissing than they were before, and a little more welcoming to the idea that all people are, in fact, born equal, no matter who they kiss or screw, no matter what dreams they have or love they give.
We remember what it was like to meet someone new. We remember what it was like to grant someone possibility. You look out from your own world and then you step into his, not really knowing what you’ll find there, but hoping it will be something good. Both Ryan and Avery are doing this. You step into his world and you don’t even realize your loneliness is missing. You’ve left it behind, and you don’t notice because you have no desire to turn back.
We do not start as dust. We do not end as dust. We make more than dust. That's all we ask of you. Make more than dust.
We wish we could have been there for you. We didn't have many role models of our own--we latched on to the foolish love of Oscar Wilde and the well-versed longing of Walt Whitman because nobody else was there to show us an untortured path. We were going to be your role models. We were going to give you art and music and confidence and shelter and a much better world. Those who survived lived to do this. But we haven't been there for you. We've been here. Watching as you become the role models.
no matter how happy we are, no matter how much we want our night to stretch out infinitely, sleep is inevitable.
You spend so much time, so much effort, trying to hold yourself together. And then everything falls apart anyway.
Feeling someone else's anger is bad; being left alone is worse.
The truth feels different from other things. The closest you can come to describing it is that it feels like taking a perfect breath.
There are things I miss," you said. "But if I didn't have you, I'd miss more.
Love is the higher law.
This is as much a part of my story as anything else. Friendship is love as much as any romance.
And I find myself saying, “It wasn’t really about her.” And finding it’s true. What do you mean?” Norah asks. It was about the feeling, you know? She caused it in me, but it wasn’t about her. It was about my reaction, what I wanted to feel and then convinced myself that I felt, because I wanted it that bad. That illusion. It was love because I created it as love.
I kiss her and she finds the light switch and turns it off, and we're just lit in Pepsi-can colors and it's like we've finally found this other kind of conversation, this conversation in gestures and pulls and pushes and breaths and grasps and teases and glimmers and rubs and expectation.
I want to kiss her without counting the seconds. I want to hold her so long that I get to know her skin. I want, I want, I want.
I was attempting to write the story of my life. It wasn't so much about plot. It was much more about character.
I mean, what if love isn't a yes-or-no question? It's not either you're in love or you're not. I mean, aren't there different levels? And maybe these things, like words and expectations and whatever, don't go on top of the love. Maybe it's like a map, and they all have their own place, and then when you see it from the sky - whoa.
When is a night over? Is it the start of sunrise or the end of it? Is it when you finally go to sleep or simply realize that you have to? When the club closes or when you everyone leaves? "It's over when you decide it's over," she says. "When you call it a night. The rest is just a matter of where the sun is in the sky.
Once time is lit, it will burn whether or not you're breathing it in. Even after smoke becomes air, there is the memory of smoke. I am seeing as if by the light of a match, a glimpse of my life and having it feel right.
But isn't this a dance? Isn't all of this a dance? Isn't that what we do with words? Isn't that what we do when we talk, when we spar, when we make plans or leave it to chance? Some of it's choreographed. Some of the steps have been done for ages. And the rest -- the rest is spontaneous. The rest has to be decided on the floor, in the moment, before the music ends.
Hello, my name is ees Lebkuchen Spice, and I vant to show you my coooooookies.
With all due respect, if you’re forty-three, then I’m a fetus.
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