“ 'I scrape under a nail and I pull out dirt. I pull off an overlay and I smell urine. It's the rot of their lives seeping into their nailbeds, you see? They can fix their hair and paint their nails and run on a treadmill until they're anorexia's poster child, but they can't fix their lives...lives of rotting perfection.' ”

“...Use your finger to trace the scar upon my chest- I lied - it wasn't a knife wound, but a scrape from a nail sliding under a fence to see you...”

“But I can’t leave, not yet. I’ll stay with her until sunrise. If I brace my feet, I won’t slide. I can rest my cheek on the roof tile and still see her. Pacing. Pulling her hair. “I’ll fix you,” I tell her. “I promise.” Even though I don’t know how.It’s better than good-bye.”

“She pulled away. "That doesn't make any sense.""Neither does this," he said, "but I don't care. I'm sick of trying to pretend I can live without you. Don't you understand that? Can't you see it's killing me?”

“Why won't you hold me?" I ask, drawing back a little.He laughs a little, holds out his hands as if in explanation. They are covered in dirt and paint and blood.I pull his hand to mine, put my palm against his. I can feel the grit of sand, the slick of paint, and the cuts and scrapes that speak of his own journey."It will all come clean," I tell him.”

“I can fix a lot of things; but, I can't fix stupid.”