“It’s hardly ever that I am hurt by something in only one dimension.”

“This pen is my only outlet, my only voice, because I have no one else to speak to, no mind but my own to drown in and all the lifeboats are taken and all the life preservers are broken and I don’t know how to swim I can’t swim I can’t swim and it’s getting so hard. It’s getting so hard. It’s like there are a million screams caught inside of my chest but I have to keep them all in because what’s the point of screaming if you’ll never be heard and no one will ever hear me in here. No one will ever hear me again.”

“I only really ever hug my mother. Is this okay?” he asked. I laughed. “It’s hard to get a hug wrong.”

“I am starting a collection of only right-hand gloves. It’s ever so bourgeois to have two.”

“—except for the fact that your scars mean you’ve been hurting, I am one-hundred-percent cool with having them in the painting. Some models, especially the professional ones, it’s like painting air-brushed people. Give me something raw any day.”

“Am I doing the right thing? Is it ever right to hurt someone? But is it right to stay with someone when you want to be with someone else? Which one would hurt more?”