A list of my favorite quotations. 

"There were things I wanted to tell him. But I knew they would hurt him. So I buried them, and let them hurt me." (Jonathan Safran Foer)

“Admit it. You aren’t like them. You’re not even close. You may occasionally dress yourself up as one of them, watch the same mindless television shows as they do, maybe even eat the same fast food sometimes. But it seems that the more you try to fit in, the more you feel like an outsider, watching the “normal people” as they go about their automatic existences. For every time you say club passwords like “Have a nice day” and “Weather’s awful today, eh?”, you yearn inside to say forbidden things like “Tell me something that makes you cry” or “What do you think deja vu is for?”. Face it, you even want to talk to that girl in the elevator. But what if that girl in the elevator (and the balding man who walks past your cubicle at work) are thinking the same thing? Who knows what you might learn from taking a chance on conversation with a stranger? Everyone carries a piece of the puzzle. Nobody comes into your life by mere coincidence. Trust your instincts. Do the unexpected. Find the others.” (Timothy Leary)

"I was satisfied with haiku until I met you, but now I want a Russian novel, a 50-page description of you sleeping." (Dean Young)

"Where he was fire, she was ice. He was made of a raging flame, she was made of a cool blue frost. He was the brand, she was the freeze. He was hot air, she was the cool breeze. While he schemed, she dreamed. While he careened, she was serene. While he was, she seemed. Where he left behind ash, she left behind water. He was a brazen son, she was a jilted daughter. He proclaimed, she refrained. He saw the world in light with shadow, she saw the world in blue by midnight’s swallow. If he was a king, she was a queen. If he was the sun, she was the moon. He could eat the stars, but she could hold them. Together, he burnt up and withered away, she melted and slid to the earth, as their love yielded something greater than either of them: steam."

"If I breathe you in and you breathe me out, I swear we can breathe forever. I swear I’ll find summer in your winter and spring in your autumn and always, hands at the ends of your fingers, arms at the ends of your shoulders and I swear, when we run out of forever, when we run out of air, your name will be the last word that my lungs make air for." (Iain Thomas, I wrote this for you)

"Most people live these scripted, horrid lives.  They pretend to like things they don’t care for.  They spend hours in conversation with uninteresting people for the sake of social acceptance. I see people, I mean I literally watch them pick around at the food they just ordered, pick around at the lives they’ve chosen, their thoughts almost audible: “This isn’t what I wanted, but I’m watching my weight.”  ”This isn’t the job I wanted, but it’s too late to start over.” I see them walk around in shoes that hurt their feet for a job that hurts their soul.  They have pretend smiles, pretend lives.  Writing, for me, is my shadow that, whenever I tread too close to this strange, painful settling in my own life, says, “Fuck you, what the fuck are you doing. If your heart’s not racing, if your eyes aren’t wild, if your mouths not salivating, move on.”" 

"I’ve always had a terrible weakness for beautiful but sad things." (Gabriel’s Inferno)

"I don't think the connection between us has been formed through words. You understand me just by looking at the expression on my face, and it shows when you gaze into my eyes. Thats what makes me wonder, sometimes, whether such a crooked, twisted hook is perishable, or whether I'll be tied to you forever."

"Writers are forgetful, but they remember everything. They forget appointments and anniversaries but remember what you wore, how you smelled on your first date. They remember every story you've ever told them but forget what you just said. They don't remember to take out the trash or water the plants but they don't forget how to make you laugh. Writers are forgetful because they are busy remembering the important things." 

"I changed my mind about heaven."
"What would it be?" She whispered.
"A blanket. A bed. You."

"Books don't offer real escape, but they can stop a mind from scratching itself raw. " (David Mitchell) 

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