Please, God, Send Me Something To Adore.

You Grow Weary Of Being Treated As The Enemy Simply Because You Are Not Young Anymore; Because You Dress Unexceptionally.

What Do You Do When You're No Longer The Hero Of Your Own Story?

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

I Suspect Any Serious Reader Has A First Great Book, Just The Way Anybody Has A First Kiss.

He Wanted To Tell Her That He Was Inspired And Vigilant And Recklessly Alone, That His Body Contained His Unsteady Heart And Something Else, Something He Felt But Could Not Describe: Porous And Spiky, Shifting With Flecks Of Thought, With Urge And Memory; Salted With Brightness, Flickerings Of White And Green And Pale Gold; Something That Loved Stars Because It Was Made Of The Same Substance.