The silence is the worst part of any fight, because it's made up of all the things we wish we could say, if only we had the guts.

Love exists in powder. Love exists in pills. We are all addicts.

We are symbolic. We are driving to the edge of the city and talking in vague-yet-resolute certainties about our dreams and our futures. We are leaving certain things in the medicine cabinet. We are falling in love.

I am a corpse bored with my own funeral. I live like a gypsy, only with less gold and maybe more curses.

It’s awful, writing such terrible things about the person you love, but I’ll take a pen and paper over a psychiatrist’s chair any day of the week. This is my therapy.

Life is merely a numbers game, a series of odds, and eventually we all lose. To think otherwise is foolish. But if we didn’t, why would anyone ever bother getting out of bed in the morning?