Live Out Loud

The trouble with fiction is that it makes too much sense. Reality never makes sense.

Once you have read a book you care about, some part of it is always with you.

We are products of our past but we don’t have to be prisoners of it.

The world will ask you who you are, and if you don’t know, the world will tell you.

I have never found anybody who could stand to accept the daily demonstrative love I feel in me, and give back as good as I give.

Me, trying to figure out who fucking killed Jason Blossom at the end of every god damn episode: 

No one can tell what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of the change. You just come out the other side. Or you don’t.

Fairy tales are more than true: not because they tell us that dragons exist, but because they tell us that dragons can be beaten.