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312 pages, Paperback
First published June 8, 2015





I was raised to think art is the stuff humans are made of.
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The ones he could remember were the only ones worth looking at, period. And so I hope it goes with me. If only I could slip into an archival quality folder and wait until enough has happened before I look back. In other words, other shit needs to happen before I know what to do. More has to pass before I know which parts matter.
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The worst part about being sad or lost or whatever the fuck I am, is that everybody you love makes you a little angry. The more they try to show you the way out, the less you trust them, like they are trying to sneak into your heart, like they've all got a scalpel in their back pocket.
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"I said I thought music and art weren't antibiotics or surgery, but that sometimes that kind of thing can save a life."
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Was it possible to be in love and be yourself? Live is loss is love is loss is love.
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Everybody likes to be looked at, but most people don't really like to be seen.
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He is not mine, but does that mean he's gone? Can someone be right in front of you and just be gone?
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"When something is precious, people are always telling you to be careful with it, so you try to be. And that works for a vase or an antique, but not with a person. . . Because you can never really get close, when you are too scared to hurt someone. So you should. Or maybe you shouldn't. But we do."
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Sometimes you can't stand love, so you have to hurt it.