I guess there are a lot of people who don't know the right thing to say. You don't notice them so much because they pretend they do.
It's a different kind of missing. You're trying to remember, and he's trying to forget.
For a while, for as long as you're looking at it, that painting is the world and you get to be in it.
I like that about art, that what you see is sometimes more about who you are than what’s on the wall. I look at this painting and think about how everyone has some secret inside, something sleeping like that yellow bird.
Every time he looked at me I felt like I'd touched my tongue to the tip of a battery. In art class I'd watch him lean back and listen and I was nothing but zing and tingle. After a while, the tingle turned to electricity, and when he asked me out my whole body amped to a level where technically I should have been dead. I had nothing in common with a sheddy like him, but a girl doesn't think straight when she's that close to electrocution.
I guess love's kind of like a marshmallow in a microwave on high. After it explodes it's still a marshmallow. but, you know, now it's a complicated marshmallow.
I like the idea of her bottles. Memories that are nothing but a strange shape floating inside of you, memories that are nothing but empty bottles. And the good stuff, glassed in so it can’t float away.
