The point is, it didn’t really matter what the book was about. It was what it meant that was important.
The only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy that loves you.
She wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that she watched the darkness stride forward.
Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?
As always, one of her books was next to her.
Sometimes people are beautiful.Not in looks.Not in what they say.Just in what they are.
My arms are killing me. I didn't know words could be so heavy.
It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.
A DEFINITION NOT FOUNDIN THE DICTIONARYNot leaving: an act of trust and love,often deciphered by children
...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.
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