Kevin Wilson · 224 pages
Rating: (1.9K votes)
“Don't you see? The things we once loved do not change, only our belief in them... You are left with the only things that any of us have in the end. The things we keep inside of ourselves, that grow out of us, that tell us who we are.”
“She's got a way of making a man feel guilty for certain things he'd never feel bad about on his own, like watching someone shoot himself in the face.”
“She is prettier than her picture had prepared me for, blond curls, big blue eyes, like a fake child that someone would make in order to convince people to have children.”
“Up to this point, all I knew were beaten paths, tattooed with footprints, and I had come to the understanding that they were not much fun to travel because so many people were waiting for you at the end, wondering what took you so long.”
“The most likely victim of spontaneous human combustion is a solitary woman, 75 percent of all known cases of SHC are women. I tell her that some people believe that arsonist poltergeists are to blame, that the spirits of firestarters roam the cities setting souls on fire.”
“Anytime in my life when I see an accumulation of items, a title of ownership in my name, I feel my insides swell. What am I going to do with all of this? Where am I going to put it? So I get rid of it. And I feel calm again. I am a library patron, a renter without an option to buy, a Salvation Arm donator, a spring cleaner of the highest order.
Why then, why in the world, do I work here, surrounded by all of this? It's easy enough. This is art, and it is not mine. I am only looking after it while the real owners are away. Most of all, I suppose, although I may not want things, I don't mind touching them for a while.”
“Oh no,” I breathed. “Oh no, oh no, oh no.” My hands flapped as I bounced from foot to foot. I imagined something exploding from my ribcage. Something with tentacles and acid spit. “Babe, I should not have drank that water.” Venomous moved to stand just out of reach on the other side of the haze. Tremors wracked his frame, and he looked desperately like he wanted to snatch me up then run. “Fix her,” Fiercely snapped as he loomed over the a’Rä. “Fix her now.” I clutched my chest. “I feel it moving.” Venomous paled. “Oh, no, that’s a necklace, but it’s only a matter of time.”
“Una poetisa muerta de cáncer en su juventud había dicho en uno de sus poemas que para ella, en las noches de insomnio, la noche ofrece sapos, perros negros y cadáveres de ahogados”
“لقد طردتهم السماء كي لايَنقٌص جمالها , ولا تقبلهم الجحيمُ العميقة حتى لا يُحرِزَ الآثمون عليهم بعض الفخر..!”
“Take a trip in my mind
see all that I've seen,
and you'd be called a
beast, not a human being...
Fuck it, cause there's
not much I can do,
there's no way out, my
screams have no voice no
matter how loud I shout...
I could be called a
low life, but life ain't
as low as me. I'm
in juvenile hall headed
for the penitentiary.
George Trevino, sixteen, "Who Am I?”
“C'est le problème avec la distance : soit vous tournez la page, soit vous comprenez à quel point vous avez besoin de la personne.”
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