You’re not alone. We’re all broken. And we’re all there for each other. That’s what the Roofers are. A family for those who have none.

Life isn’t worth living without risking love, even if the sweetest pleasure spawns the deepest pain.

Ask someone about their day, and they’ll kiss your feet. Remember someone’s name, and they’ll buy you lunch. People are so desperate to be seen. But I’m desperate to be invisible.

Sobriety makes me irritable. People make me irritable. Okay, life, in general, makes me irritable.

Of course I cheated. I’m too smart to play fair.

Yes, because all of us quiet types have the same interests and goals. We all get together in annual powwows and silently praise the same gods to keep us invisible, to keep us stereotyped.

I should send you away. I should chuck your body over the edge of the roof and never look back. But I always look back. I always look for you.

Hold us tight, and tell us it will be okay. We’re all babies inside. Yes, there are layers of years, but they only serve to cover the truth, not to corrupt it.

She’s my mirror — the same image twisted, turned, reflected back so sun becomes moon, left becomes right, good becomes evil, right becomes wrong. But who am I? The person? Or the echo?