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Someone might as well roll up the whole sky, pack it away for good.

Jandy Nelson

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Jandy Nelson
Age: 59
Born: 1965
Born: November 25
Writer
New York City
New York
Sky
Away
Someone
Wells
Might
Well
Pack
Whole
Packs
Good
Roll

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Our tongues have fallen madly in love and gotten married and moved to Paris.
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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.
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grief is a house that disappears each time someone knocks at the door or rings the bell a house that blows into the air at the slightest gust that buries itself deep in the ground while everyone is sleeping
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We were all heading for each other on a collision course, no matter what. Maybe some people are just meant to be in the same story.
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Take a (second or third or fourth) chance. Remake the world.
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When people fall in love, they burst into flames.
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And why do English people sound smarter than the rest of us? Like they should be awarded the Nobel Prize for a simple greeting?
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The guy's life drunk, I think, makes Candide look like a sourpuss. Does he even know that death exists?
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The Color Of Extraordinary.
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Reality is crushing. The world is a wrong-sized shoe. How can anyone stand it?
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She's a sun-kissed beach girl who goes gothgrungepunkhippierockeremocoremetalfreakfashionistabraingeekboycrazyhiphoprastagirl to keep it under wraps.
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I can't shove the dark out of my way.
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That's exactly it—I am crazy sad, and somewhere deep inside, all I want is to fly.
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I heard this expression once: Each time someone dies, a library burns. I'm watching it burn right to the ground.
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... every available inch of his face busts into a smile - whoa. Has he blown into our school on a gust of wind from another world? The guy looks unabashedly jack-o'-lantern happy, which couldn't be more foreign to the sullen demeanor most of us strove to perfect.
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But then I think about my sister and what a shell-less turtle she was and how she wanted me to be one too. C'mon, Lennie, she used to say to me at least ten times a day. C'mon Len. And that makes me feel better, like it's her life rather than her death that is now teaching me how to be, who to be.
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This is our story to tell. You’d think for all the reading I do, I would have thought about this before, but I haven’t. I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the story telling aspect of life, of my life. I always felt like I was in a story, yes, but not like I was the author of it, or like I had any say in its telling whatsoever.
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We wish with our hands, that's what we do as artists.
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But what if music is what escapes when a heart breaks?
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Remember how it was when we kissed? Armfuls and armfuls of light thrown right at us. A rope dropping down from the sky. How can the word love and the word life even fit in the mouth?
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