Ethan Wate! Are you listenin´ to me? You better get yourself down here yesterday, or you won´t be havin´ breakfast again this week.

Aunt Grace motioned towards the garage door. "Ethan, you be a good boy and pull the Cadillac around, ya hear. We just have ta put on our faces."

Yeah, that would get me out of trouble, around the same time the sun exploded and the solar system died.

"Look, there´s something going on here. The dreams, the song, the smell, and now the locket. It´s like we´re supposed to be friends."
"Did you just say, the smell?" She looked horrified. "In the same sentence as friends?"
"Technically, I think it was a different sentence."

"They bother me. And that´s why I´m stupid. That makes me exponentially more stupid than stupid. I´m stupid to the power of stupid."
"That´s the stupidest thing I´ve ever heard."

Just as I Iay back, she sat up. I sat up, and she flopped back down. Awkward.

I took a breath and vaulted up the rest of the stairs, two at a time. Figured I increased my odds of not falling through them by fifty percent if I only landed on half of them.

(...) the house was leaning over like an arthritic, old woman.
(..)
Thick ivy grew so densely over the exterior walls that in some places it was impossible to see the windows underneath. As if the grounds had swallowed up the house itself, trying to take it back down into the very dirt it had been built upon.

The gate creaked open. And then, nothing happened. No lightning, no combustion, no storms. I don´t know what I was expecting, but if I had learned anything about Lena by now, it was to expect the unexpected, and to proceed with caution.

"She punched clean through the glass. I saw it with my own eyes!"
"Then how come she´s not gushing blood?"
"What are you, CSI? She tried to kill us!"
(...)
More like an old man´s niece and a lightning storm. The green-eyed storm that just rolled into town. Hurricane Lena.

Defying Emily Asher was an act of social suicide.
(...)
The girl freeze-out. Today it was negative fifteen.

"How´s the book coming?" I blurted out. Stay and talk to me. That´s what I meant.
He looked surprised, then shrugged. "It´s coming. Still got a lot of work to do." He couldn´t. That´s what he meant.

In first-period English, I discovered my seven-hundred-year.old teacher, whose name really was Mrs. English, had expected us to (...)

..."What do you think a this one?" Link turned up his latest demo track.
"I think it needs some work. Like all your other songs." It was the same thing I said every day, more or less.
"Yeah, well, your face will need some work after I give you a good beatin´." It was the same thing he said every day, more or less.

Butterflies in my stomach. That was such a crappy metaphor. More like killer bees.

"Hjertet mitt er som en elendig danser : stivt og uten noen form for rytmesans".

Thomas Edison´s last words were, "It´s very beautiful over there." I don´t know where there is, but I know it´s somewhere, and I hope it´s beautiful.

We are as indestructible as we believe ourselves to be.

"Let me ask you a question, Pudge. When you´re old and grey and your grandchildren are sitting on your knee and look up at you and say, ´Grandpappy, who gave you your first blow job? do you really want to have to tell them it was some girl you spent the rest of high school ignoring? No!"

"The thing is that I just don´t find it very interesting," Takumi said matter-of-factly.