“I'm just not a good psychic. I can tell when something's not right, sometimes, but I can't tell what it is, or when it is, or if I'm supposed to do anything about it. I've tried to make it make sense, but I can't. It's just feelings instead of words.”

“I'm always sure of what I do," he said. "Sometimes I was just never sure there was supposed to be a happy ending.”

“[I]t just makes me tired even thinking about it. It reminds me of that feeling I had before I left. Like my lungs were made of lead. Like I can't even think about starting to care about anything. Like I either wish that they were all dead, or I was, because I can't stand the pull of all that history between us. That's before I even pick up the phone. I'm so tired I never want to wake up again. But I've figured out now that it was never them that made me feel that way. It was just me, all along.”

“Do you know, it's really hard to be a parent. I blame it on Santa Claus. You spend so long making sure your kid doesn't know he's fake that you can't tell when you're supposed to stop.""Mom, I found you and Calla wrapping my presents when I was, like, six.""It was a metaphor, Blue.""A metaphor's supposed to clarify by providing an example. That didn't clarify.""Do you know what I mean or not?""What you mean is that you're sorry you didn't tell me about Butternut."Maura glowered at the door as if Calla stood behind it. "I wish you wouldn't call him that.""If you'd been the one to tell me about him, then I wouldn't be using what Calla told me.""Fair enough.”

“I'm trying to make you think I'm a decent person. Telling you I saw you naked while I was another species does not help my case”

“Do you know how some people can do anything?”“What do you mean?”“I mean, you tell them to write a tune, they give you a symphony right there. You tell them to write a book, they write you a novel in a day. You tell them to move a spoon without touching it, they move it. If they want something, they make it happen. Miracles, almost.”

“It's okay," Puck says. She has a quick way of hiding her disappointment. If you're not looking for it, she's put it away somewhere before you know it was there. "You're busy." "No," I tell her. "No, I'll think about it. I'm not sure if I can get away." I don't know wheat I'm thinking. I cannot find the time to get away. I'm not a good dinner companion. But it's hard to think of that. Instead I'm wishing that I'd spoken sooner, before I'd seen her disappointment.”