Real dancing happens in the heart.

A heart, a real heart is pretty fucking ugly—a lumpy, asymmetrical mass of muscle, varicolored vessels sticking out like rusty old plumbing.

It’s all body, all heart. Pure bliss.

Blood courses from the head back to the heart.

With your love, I can be nude; I can be myself.

There’s something in the air, but it isn’t love.

That’s the one nice thing about having an unrequited crush. You have someone who likes everything you do.

If you make me perfect, I can help make you perfect.

The angel is nothing without the demon.