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Check it out. I got a new name tag today. He unclipped it and held it out toward me. I looked at it. A. GUY. He grinned. Someone actually asked me what the A stood for, he said, his hand brushing mine as he took the tag back, sliding it into his pocket. I said Larry.

Elizabeth Scott

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Elizabeth Scott
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You're right . . . you can't go back. No matter how much you want to, you never can
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I want to lie down on the bench then, or better yet, on the grass, rest on something living and see if I can hear the dead underneath.
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I don't know how I know that, but I do. I can feel the beat of that truth inside me. Taste it bitter on my tongue. Sometimes, like now, I didn't think I want to know who I really am.
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Talking about someone who makes you happy actually makes you happy. Being happy makes you want to talk, to go over everything, to share it so you can remember it all over again.
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Whatever happened to me just now has gotten to me, broken past the fragile shell I've built. More than my memory is gone. My soul has wings that beat to a heart I don't understand and I see things, feel things that I know aren't from here, but that are so real.
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It's bullshit. It's so easy to label people, to look at a list of symptoms and say, This is who you are. This is what you are.
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I think...I think sometimes that's how it is. Sometimes people have to go before you get stuff. Before you can really get it.
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Anger can try to break your heart, but sorrow is what will. What can. What does.
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What had been became what was and a story only works when you know the ending. When the people in it don’t seem like pretend. When you can think about that girl and how she was once upon a time, and see her. When you don’t already know the story is a lie.
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You tell yourself that you aren't something or that you can't be something, and you know what? It will become true. You have to decide who you are and what you can do and then go after what you want. Because believe me, no one is going to give it to you.
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I don’t know, shifted a little or something, smoothed down–people would think of me the way they think of Dave, and everything would always be perfect. I would be perfect.
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I love books. I like that the moment you open one and sink into it you can escape from the world, into a story that's way more interesting that yours will ever be.
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He is nothing to look at, and yet I can’t stop looking at him. There is something beautiful in how his face is made, how all the tiny flaws blend together into something more perfect than perfection could ever be.
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