I can't find who wrote this (it was't me)but I think it is great. Before I was your mother, I was a girl.
A town teeming with life. Full to overflowing. And every day, the good people counted their blessings. Every single one…
It isn’t about being at the same school or the same town or even the same room. It’s about being together. Love is a choice you make.
(…) maybe the heart is an organ on constant ready, always waiting to try again, always open to the next best thing.
The train blows through town delivering reality, slapping my face and screaming, “You are alone” Rose colored memories drown, taking their last breath.
The weight of lies will bring you down, follow you to every town 'cause nothing happens here that doesn't happen there.
They bowed down to him rather, because he was all of these things, and then again he was all of these things because the town bowed down.
She launched the airplane and it caught a current and circled down toward the town, like a promise of something good.
She raised one leg and gave me all her weight as I dipped her. She either trusted me or wanted to fall.
We don't suffer from a shortage of metaphors, is what I mean. But you have to be careful which metaphor you choose, because it matters.
What about the rest of your life?" She shrugged. "What about it?" "Aren't you worried about, like, forever?" "Forever is composed of nows," she says.
Most of my friends were in band, and most of my free time during school was spent within twenty feet of the band room
Was it animal pee or human pee? Someone asked. How would I know? What, am I an expert in the study of pee?
There are so many people. It is easy to forget how full the world is of people, full to bursting, and each of them imaginable and consistently misimagined.
My heart is really pounding," I said. "That's how you know you're having fun," Margo said.
I don't know how I look, but I know how I feel: Young. Goofy. Infinite.
The abbreviated exam week meant that Wednesday was the last day of school for us. And all day long, it was hard not to walk around, thinking about the lastness of it all.
And as paralyzing and upsetting as all the never agains were, the final leaving felt perfect. Pure. The most distilled possible form of liberation.
That doesn't sound like my Margo", she said, and I thought of my Margo, and all of us looking at her reflection in different funhouse mirrors.
What's the pleasure?' I asked. 'Planning, I guess. I don't know. Doing stuff never feels as good as you hope it will feel.
Poetry is just so emo." he said. "Oh, the pain. The pain. It always rains. In my soul.
