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'Don't wake me because I'm dreaming of Angels on the moon.'
With deep words only just grasped by the tough skin at my finger tips and pulled through my lips I try to inspire myself and those around me. Forever looking for a way to say something in the opposite way to simplistic, I want creativity. Though from time to time, I lack the motivation. I'm in love with elves, pixies and imps and just th...

Liberté follows:
  • Books are the ultimate Dumpees: put them down and they’ll wait for you forever; pay attention to them and they always love you back.
  • When adults say, "Teenagers think they are invincible" with that sly, stupid smile on their faces, they don't know how right they are. We need never be hopeless, because we can never be irreparably broken. We think that we are invincible because we are. We cannot be born, and we cannot die. Like all energy, we can only change shapes and sizes and manifestations. They forget that when they get old. They get scared of losing and failing. But that part of us greater than the sum of our parts cannot begin and cannot end, and so it cannot fail
  • You can love someone so much...But you can never love people as much as you can miss them
  • Thomas Edison's last words were 'It's very beautiful over there'. I don't know where there is, but I believe it's somewhere, and I hope it's beautiful.
  • I wanted so badly to lie down next to her on the couch, to wrap my arms around her and sleep. Not fuck, like in those movies. Not even have sex. Just sleep together in the most innocent sense of the phrase. But I lacked the courage and she had a boyfriend and I was gawky and she was gorgeous and I was hopelessly boring and she was endlessly fascinating. So I walked back to my room and collapsed on the bottom bunk, thinking that if people were rain, I was drizzle and she was hurricane
  • What a treacherous thing to believe that a person is more than a person.
  • They love their hair because they're not smart enough to love something more interesting
  • What is the point of being alive if you don't at least try to do something remarkable?
  • What is an "instant" death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.
  • You don't remember what happened. What you remember becomes what happened
  • He was gone, and I did not have time to tell him what I had just now realized: that I forgave him, and that she forgave us, and that we had to forgive to survive in the labyrinth. There were so many of us who would have to live with things done and things left undone that day. Things that did not go right, things that seemed okay at the time because we could not see the future. If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless. And as I walked back to give Takumi’s note to the Colonel, I saw that I would never know. I would never know her well enough to know her thoughts in those last minutes, would never know if she left us on purpose. But the not-knowing would not keep me from caring, and I would always love Alaska Young, my crooked neighbor, with all my crooked heart.
  • I didn’t need you, you idiot. I picked you. And then you picked me back.
  • If you don't imagine, nothing ever happens at all.
  • Maybe our favorite quotations say more about us than about the stories and people we're quoting.
  • It always shocked me when I realized that I wasn’t the only person in the world who thought and felt such strange and awful things.
  • And then something invisible snapped insider her, and that which had come together commenced to fall apart.
  • And all at once I knew how Margo Roth Spiegelman felt when she wasn't being Margo Roth Spiegelman: she felt empty. She felt the unscaleable wall surrounding her. I thought of her asleep on the carpet with only that jagged sliver of sky above her. Maybe Margo felt comfortable there because Margo the person lived like that all the time: in an abandoned room with blocked-out windows, the only light pouring in through holes in the roof. Yes. The fundamental mistake I had always made—and that she had, in fairness, always led me to make—was this: Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.
sep 30 2011 ∞
feb 7 2012 +