For all the people who have infected me with amor deliria nervosa in the past- you know who you are.For the people who will infect me in the future- I can't wait to see who you'll be.And in both cases:Thank you.

-Todo el mundo está dormido. Llevan años dormidos. Tu parecias... despierta - susurra. Cierra los ojos, los vuelve a abrir-. Estoy harto de dormir.

I said, I prefer the ocean when it's gray. Or not really gray. A pale, in-between color. It reminds me of waiting for something good to happen.

How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?

This is the strange way of the world, that people who simply want to love are instead forced to become warriors.

Alex loved books. He was the one who first introduced me to poetry. That's another reason I can't read anymore.

I wish I could close my eyes and be blown into dust and nothingness, feel all my thoughts disperse like dandelion fluff drifting off on the wind. But his hands keep pulling me back: into the alley, and Portland, and a world that has suddenly stopped making sense.

They haven't killed us yet," I say, and I imagine that one day I will fly a plane over Portland, over Rochester, over every fenced-in city in the whole country, and I will bomb and bomb and bomb, and watch all their buildings smoldering to dust, and all those people melting and bleeding into flame, and I will see how they like it. If you take, we will take back. Steal from us, and we will rob you blind. When you squeeze, we will hit. This is the way the world is made now.

I like you.You don't know me.I want to, though.