“she was such a bad actress. she never said her lines rite, it was something perverse in her nature. and wat was her line anyway?”

“It was amazing what an hour with her sketchpad could do for her mood. She was sure that the lines she drew with her black marker were going to save her years of worry lines in the future.”

“And anyway, considering that her mother dies and her boyfriend's spending a small fortune to get high off someone else's bad breath, I'd say Sophie's next in line for therapy.”

“. . . the romantic teenager buried deep inside her was weeping at the perversion of her love story. There was no hero in her romance, and the villain made her feel things that she had never imagined she could experience.”

“She lifted her eyes to his face, and found his gaze lined with silver. "Get up," was all he said.”

“She wrote poetry constantly; that was her "work". She was a slow bleeder and she slaved over it for long, exhausting hours, and many a middle of a night I could hear her creaking around the dead house with a pen in one hand, a clipboard and a flashlight in the other, refining her poems, jotting down the lines of a conceit. Writing never came easy for her; it gave her calluses. She never courted the muses, she wrestled them, mauled them all over the house and came up, after weeks of peripatetic labor, with a slim Spencerian sonnet, fourteen lines of imagistic jabberwocky.”