“Life's a freaking mess. In fact, I'm going to tell Sarah we need to start a new philosophical movement: messessentialism instead of existentialism: For those who revel in the essential mess that is life. Because Gram's right, there's not one truth ever, just a bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It's all a beautiful calamitous mess. It's like the day Mr. James took us into the woods and cried triumphantly, "That's it! That's it!" to the dizzying cacophony of soloing instruments trying to make music together. That is it.”

“Life’s a freaking mess… there’s not one truth ever, just a bunch of stories, all going on at once, in our heads, in our hearts, all getting in the way of each other. It’s all a beautiful calamitous mess.”

“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.”

“I’ve never once thought about the interpretative, the storytelling 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. You can tell your story any way you damn well please. It’s your solo.”

“At night,when we were little,we tented Bailey's covers,crawled underneath with our flashlightsand played cards: Hearts,Whist, Crazy Eights, and our favourite: Bloody Knuckles.The competition was vicious,All day, every day,we were the Walker Girls -two peas in a podthick as thieves -but when Gram closed the doorfor the night,we bared our teeth.We played for chores,for slave duty,for truths and dares and money.We played to be better, brighter,to be more beautiful,more,just more.But it was all a ruse -we playedso we could fall asleepin the same bedwithout having to ask,so we could wrap togetherlike a braid,so while we sleptour dreams could switch bodies.(Found written on the inside cover of Wuthering Heights, Lennie's room)”

“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 tectonic plates shifting, of the deep devouring dark.”

“You can tell your story any way you damn well please. It's your solo.”