Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world..

I always imagined music trapped inside my clarinet, not trapped inside of me. But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders..

We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists..

It’s never occurred to me that the stars are still up there shining even in the daytime when we can’t see them..

Years ago, I was crashed in gram’s garden and Big asked me what I was doing. I told him I was looking up at the sky. He said, “That’s a misconception….

The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?.

According to all the experts, it's time for me to talk about what I'm going through... I can't. I'd need a new alphabet, one made of falling, of tect….

The architecture of my sister's thinking, now phantom. I fall down stairs that are nothing but air..

When I'm with him, there is someone with me in my house of grief, someone who knows its architecture as I do, who can walk with me, from room to sorr….

I don't know how the heart withstands it..

I didn't know love felt like this, like turning into brightness..

I could step out of this sad life like it's an old sorry dress..

I wish my shadow would get up and walk beside me..

She's a sun-kissed beach girl who goes gothgrungepunkhippierockeremocoremetalfreakfashionistabraingeekboycrazyhiphoprastagirl to keep it under wraps..

Music: what life, what living itself sounds like..

In one split second I saw everything I could be, everything I want to be. And all that I'm not..

This is the secret I kept from you, Bails, from myself too: I think I liked that Mom was gone, that she could be anybody, anywhere, doing anything. I….

This is it--what all the hoopla is about, what Wuthering Heights is about--it all boils down to this feeling rushing through me in this moment with J….

When he plays all the flowers swap colors and years and decades and centuries of rain pour back into the sky.

How can the word love, the word life, even fit in the mouth?.