Cg Drews Quotes

Chocolate is a substance worth existing for

You are worth more than a thousand perfect notes.

Everything inside me is in ruins," Thomas said. "For you.

You could cut me open and devour everything that I am. I would let you, I'd ask you to. But I have no idea what it means to you. What I mean to you.

If you cut open my chest'—Andrew's voice was wrecked—'you'll find a garden of rot where my heart should be.

Music is nothing unless it fills your soul with colour and passion and dreams

I don't care how dark the world is for you. I'll hold out my hand until you find it, and I won't let go.

He needed Thomas, needed their lungs sewn inside each other so he could remember how to breathe. He needed to take words from Thomas's mouth and put them in his own so he had something to say.

For a vicious moment, Andrew thought about slipping his fingers into Thomas's cut. Taking hold of his rib and breaking it. Pulling the soft crumbling bone from his chest and sewing it into his own. They'd be forever together, rib against rib, fused in gore and bone and adoration.

An extraordinary amount of intimacy lay in exchanging art. Not for critique and not for class. Just to look. To feel. To understand each other.

When I cut you open all I'll find is that we match.

It was strange, Andrew thought, how when something moved in the dark, everyone’s first instinct was to go inside and hide under the covers. As if monsters couldn’t open doors and crawl into bed with you.

I like how you are. There’s an entire world of ink and magic stuffed inside your head, and I think it’s beautiful. I just wish everything didn’t hurt you so much.

To write something nice, he’d need something nice to say. But his ribs were a cage for monsters and they cut their teeth on his bones.

But all Andrew could think was if he could crack open Thomas's ribs right then and fit his whole self inside him, he would.

Here was a boy who made monsters, or perhaps was a monster himself. All because he couldn't face the fact, the guilt, the sorrow, the rage, of his sister being dead.

No, please. It's – you're allowed to hurt. It's not a contest.

You could cut me open and devour everything I am," Thomas said, ragged and thin. "I would let you. I'd ask you to

Cheerfulness is irritating, but it suits some people. Some people are born for sunlight and orange peel smiles and running on the beach and wild flowers in their hair. Other people are born for nonexistence.

All my stories are about you. They will always be about you.

To cut out his heart was actually such a small thing.

Sharing music is personal because music speaks, it feels, it breathes. And it always says something about you.

I think someday you'll hate me." Thomas's voice stretched with a loneliness Andrew had never heard before. "You'll cut me open and find a garden of rot where my heart should be." Andrew let the silence sharpen between them, waited until Thomas's breath caught in quiet anguish from being made to wait. "When I cut you open," Andrew finally said, "all I'll find is that we match.

This is how they were, bones broken and mended crookedly, each intertwined with the other. He though maybe you could love someone so much you ruined them, and then ruined yourself.

If he were a piano, all his strings would have snapped

He's so empty. They tried to stitch him back together, but too much already fell out. Stars and buttons and caramel truffles.

He's officially taken house burglary to the next level. Forget stealing a bed, a key, a home for the night. He's stealing families and their Sunday lunches.

I'll write you an entire symphony if you ask.

Sam looks down at his fingers wrapped around Avery's phone. "I'll catch him if he falls." "Who catches you?" Moxie says. Sam stitches on a pretend smile. "It doesn't matter.

They were beautiful together; they were magic and monstrous, and they created a whole vengeful world between them.

They could be so beautiful to each other. They could be so cruel.

We're stealing a house, because you know what we need?" Avery shakes his head. "We are the kings of nowhere," Sammy says. "We only need us." He's a very good liar.

He can't care about anything else. He can't. The music in his head is his pocket of relief, the only thing he passionately cares about.

A family. A home. I really want a... h-home.” “But you can’t steal it.” “I know,” Sam whispers. I know I know I know. “You have to build it.

But he didn’t know what part of himself was safe to hold on to.

Once upon a time, Andrew had cut out his heart and given it to this boy, and he was very sure Thomas had no idea that Andrew would do anything for him. Protect him. Lie for him. Kill for him.

It shouldn’t be a surprise that the forest had outgrown the confines of his body and longed to stretch. He used to be an empty boy, impossible to fill. Now he was so full of monsters.

She is the sun and her eyes burn stars.

Everybody leaves.” “I’m not leaving.

Thomas went off on a rant about how math was offensive, or how he belonged to the forest like some sort of fae child who planned to run away to the trees and never look back.

I'm scared of everything except the dark.

Life didn't fit against his skin and it never had and sometimes everything was just too much.

Andrew lowered his head so his mouth was close to Thomas's ear. 'Wake up. I need you to tell me if we're real.' Thomas didn't open his eyes, but his face had gone soft; all that fierce anger and lonesome fear slipped away. 'Kiss me,' he said, low and sleepy. 'Then you'll find out.

He wouldn't be kissable. He's piano keys and crumpled music trapped in his soul. Not kissable. Kickable.

He can't be an invisible boy when she can see him. He can't steal houses or the girl inside them, but he can build a bridge of moons and caramel cakes to get back to her.

Thomas was nothing if not a chronic mess of untucked corners and spills and mussed hair and artwork staining his cuffs.

I'd take you.' Andrew swung his flashlight around the trees. 'I'd pack you into my carry-on.' 'Like, okay, I'm short, but not that short.' Andrew snorted.

It hit Andrew then, how Thomas would sacrifice the world for him without even thinking. How terrible that was. How part of Andrew's chest caved in relief with knowing it.

He hates how innocent her face is, how her lps are twisted in a quiet smile, how her breath puffs in globes of cold white. He hates it because she is hope and tomorrow and he is goodbye and the end.

He wants to be invisible. An invisible boy with an invisible song in his head.

The world is a broken mirror, each shard reflecting his terrified face.

Long may you rot

He leaves the butterflies bleeding over their wings and descends back to the pits of volcanoes and terror. He plays like it's his last moment on earth. He plays so he feels like crying. And then it's done. Silence.

Who tells you to be quiet all the time?” Laurie’s words are a low, thickened spill of warm honey. “Pain is meant to take up space or else we wouldn’t know how to scream. Fuck making your agony silent to avoid disturbing others. Maybe they should be disturbed.

No, he likes her because there is sunshine in her eyes and she knows the secrets to smiling.

It was easy to tell a story than say how he felt.

All he says, his voice soft and reverent and broken all the way through, is, "God was stronger than me when he made Adam and didn’t fall in love with him.

But what if I should discover that the least among them all, the poorest of all beggars, the most impudent of all offenders, yea the very fiend himself - that these are within me, and that I myself stand in need of my own kindness, that I myself am the enemy who must be loved - what then? Then, as a rule, the whole truth of Christianity is reversed: there is no more talk of love and long-suffering; we say to the brother within us, "Raca," and condemn and rage against ourselves. We hide him from the world; we deny ever having met this least among the lowly in ourselves, and had it been God himself who drew near to us in this despicable form, we should have denied him a thousand times before a single cock had crowed.

Everything inside Andrew had been scooped out, and he'd been left a hollow thing, impossible to fill. Dove would absolutely freak out when she saw what he'd done to his hand. He'd explain it to her over breakfast, how it had been a tough, stressful year, and he'd spaced out for a minute. He'd thought there was a monster in the mirror and he'd only meant to kill it.

It was strange, Andrew thought, how when something moved in the dark, everyone's first instinct was to go inside and hide under the covers. As if monsters couldn't open doors and crawl into bed with you.

If people cut him open, they'd never accuse him of being empty

Sammy.' He gasps for breath. 'I ran all the - way - over here - to rescue you -' He sucks in a ragged lungful of air. 'And you're just kissing - in the sunset? You little jerk.

If something even remotely sexist comes out of you mouth again,' Moxie says, her eyes glinting, 'I will take a pound of flesh per word.

For those who have been made to feel monstrous

He wanted to say, 'You are my everything, too.' He wanted to say, 'I don't exist without you.' He wanted to say, 'Kiss me.' But he had to step back, because he couldn't be what Thomas wanted, and for that he was going to lose him completely.

This was what Andrew did—told stories. Ones with dark, bitter corners and magic curled into thorns. Ones about monsters with elegant, razor-like teeth. He wrote fairy tales, but cruel. Thomas loved them.

She held two of the frosted cookies decorated with snowflakes so detailed they looked like they'd fallen fresh from the sky. He accepted one because he didn't know how to say There's a forest growing in my stomach, so I'm never hungry.

He wishes they'd realise, though, that you can't fill the hole of a missing mother by carving each other into pieces.

I don’t care how dark the world is for you. I’ll hold out my hand until you find it, and I won’t let go.

Would you die for me?' Thomas sounded warm and cottony with sleep. 'Of course I would.

When I cut you open all I'll find is that we match".

There's a forest growing in my stomach, so I'm never hungry.

He wanted this to stop. He wanted to not be here. In his skin. In his head.

Sometimes there was no stopping pain. There was just seeing how much you could swallow before it spilled out your throat.

After all, friendship lasted forever until it didn’t.

He tries, but somehow even trying means he's failed.

Because here was the truth about his friendship with Thomas Rye: Once upon a time, Andrew had cut out his heart and given it to this boy, and he was very sure Thomas had no idea that Andrew would do anything for him. Protect him. Lie for him. Kill for him.

He's not exactly a stranger anymore. He showed Jack how to do a backflip. Someone tipped sand down his shirt. He gave Moxie a leg up over the chain fence on the way home. He's eaten their potato salad and worn their clothes. The trouble is he stole it all, every moment. And that's the part people don't overlook. They feel betrayed. Betrayed people have the hardest fists.

He floods the house with music that shook the world a hundred years ago. His fingers knot over complicated patterns and his thumbs fail when he needs them most. But, the Maestro's wrath aside, he owes it to the music to find perfection.

Moxie's body relaxes and her shoulder leans against his. The pressure is warm and soft and everything. And he falls into it. Just a little. He won't let himself get too comfortable - he's not that stupid. But for the barest moment between patchwork frowns, he's wanted.

He doesn’t look back. But he hopes her smile returns when he’s gone, because it’s a cruel person who steals smiles.

It’s like being beaten – but with hope instead of fists.

If it hadn't been so dark and if his fingers hadn't been so stiff with dried blood, he could've picked the lock in thirty-eight seconds.

He would core him like a pear and throw away the soft, rotted skin until he saw him as he really is: horrible and beautiful and real.

You look nice. Shall we frolic to our dinner of torment?

Inside him, what he really thought beat against his pulse, dark and fervent and cruel. You are a nightmare, you are a god of wicked places, to stop your horror maybe we have to stop you—

Kiss me, then.' It burst out of him, frantic and feral. 'Kiss me.' Thomas took Andrew's face in his hands, thumbs tracing his lips as he tilted his head down. Their lips almost touched, Andrew's swollen and crusted with blood, Thomas's warm and soft as a story. Then he whispered, 'I am real. You are real.' 'Make me believe you,' Andrew said. And Thomas kissed him, hard and fierce and merciless. All teeth and tongue as he took everything from Andrew and devoured him whole. Andrew's teeth sank into Thomas's lip until the old scab burst open again, and then it was impossible to do anything but breathe as one. They were catastrophe, exploding. Thomas pulled back and grabbed Andrew's face, rough and hard. He pressed their foreheads together. 'Do you feel this? I am here and I am here and I am here.

Beck closes his eyes. Forgets. Zones out so far he reaches the place deep inside where his own music lies. Little notes clamouring to be free. His own notes. His own creations. His fingers tap a tattoo against his other clammy palm. If people cut him open, they'd never accuse him of being empty. He's not a shell of a pianist - he's a composer. Cut his chest and see his heart beat with a song all his own.

Words have always sat like dead moths and dried flowers in his mouth, unheard because no one is ever interested in what he has to say. He is not clever; he is not poetry. He is just a boy who speaks too bluntly when what he wants most is to figure out which pretty, magical words will finally make him understood.

But the notes inside him roil and break and press so hard against his skin they'll rip the seams and he'll burst and - maybe they'll call him empty after all. Maybe no one can see his music, his own music, but him.

If he could dig fingernails into the sides of Laurie’s face and peel back the mask, he would. He would core him like a pear and throw away the soft, rotted skin until he saw him as he really is: horrible and beautiful and real.

What do you want?' Andrew said, and watched Thomas frown in confusion. He stared at Andrew with the night pooled black in his eyes, and when his mouth shaped a word, Andrew so desperately wanted it to be: You. But Thomas didn't say that. He didn't have a chance to say anything. Behind him a claw shot out of the darkness and snatched him by the throat.

If Evander gathers information, puts it down in bold ink, and fits the pieces together, it will make sense. This is all that’s keeping him from letting grief slip through the fissures of his broken heart. He will find a way to make death make sense.

It’s a rough, uneven sound, his tears cut from wild seas and broken skies, all the usual apathy and sardonic quips stripped. This is a moment so raw and skeletal it feels wrong to see. Evander doesn’t leave. He drinks it in. He eats it. He wants to watch.

Back in the study, Laurie had been split apart with anger, his neck flushed, his voice rising. Now that fury is gone, wholly and utterly gone. Anyone who can turn off their emotions like that has to be placing them somewhere dark to grow even more brittle and toxic.

He knows what it is to be buried alive, the feeling of dirt in his mouth and the quiet fitting around him like a well-tailored grave. Sometimes Evander still tastes it under his tongue, that rich earth clotting between his molars. He should have grown out of the memory by now, but he belongs to it, and not in a gentle way.

He wishes he wasn’t like this, wishes he could stand even parallel to normal and be someone who fits next to those his age, who goes to school and kisses an appropriate amount of pretty people and isn’t bothered by things like an odd seam in his clothes or the very existence of socks. He wishes his brain moved in one direction, not a dozen all at the same time, and that he didn’t pull apart in a panic if even one thing goes wrong.

Viktor Frankl, the psychiatrist and Nazi concentration camp survivor who wrote the classic Man’s Search for Meaning, drew a similar social-psychological conclusion: deceitful, inauthentic individual existence is the precursor to social totalitarianism. Sigmund Freud, for his part, analogously believed that “repression” contributed in a non-trivial manner to the development of mental illness (and the difference between repression of truth and a lie is a matter of degree, not kind). Alfred Adler knew it was lies that bred sickness. C.G. Jung knew that moral problems plagued his patients, and that such problems were caused by untruth. All these thinkers, all centrally concerned with pathology both individual and cultural, came to the same conclusion: lies warp the structure of Being. Untruth corrupts the soul and the state alike, and one form of corruption feeds the other.

She's going to see how bare the house is. How bleak. They don't own much, just useful furniture and filing cabinets of music. No decorations. His family collects bruises and German insults instead of crockery and photo frames.

The first doctor understood the situation and sent the patient to the second. Here she drew her own conclusions from her dream, and decided to leave. My interpretation of her third dream disappointed her greatly, but she was distinctly encouraged to go on in spite of all difficulties by the fact that it reported the frontier already crossed.