Македонија на Македонците!
Finished reading Smoke by Ellen Hopkins and am now currently blubbering like a baby.
The library, with its paper perfume, whispered queries, and copy machine shuffles, was the only familiar place on the entire campus.
Perfect? How do you define a word without concrete meaning? To each his own, the saying goes, so why push to attain an ideal state of being that no two random people with agree is where you want to be? Faultless. Finished. Incomparable. People can never be these, and anyway, when did creating a flawless facade become a more vital goal than learning to love the person who lives inside your skin? The outside belongs to others. Only you should decide for you—what is perfect.
i now have Burned, Glass and Fallout. neeeeed Crank, Tricks and Impulse.
Some people flit from one possibility to the next, never experiencing the incredible connection of two people, rocked by destiny. Never knowing what it means to love someone else more than themselves. More than life itself, or the promise of something better, beyond this world. More, even (forgive me!) than God. Lucky me. I found the right kind of love.