When she opened her eyes, she was both in her body and watching it, nowhere near the cavity of the tree. The Blue that was before her stood inches from a boy in an Aglionby sweater. There was a slight stoop to his posture, and his shoulders were spattered darkly with rain. It was his fingers that Blue felt on her face. He touched her cheek with the backs of his fingers. Tears coursed down the other Blue's face. Though some strange magic, Blue could feel them on her face as well. She could feel, too, sick, rising misery she'd felt in the churchyard, the grief that felt bigger than her. The other Blue's tears seemed endless. One drop slid after another, each following an identical path down her cheeks.The boy in the Aglionby sweater leaned his forehead against Blue's. She felt the pressure of his skin against hers, and suddenly she could smell mint. It'll be okay. Gansey told the other Blue. She could tell that he was afraid. It'll be okay.Impossibly, Blue realized that this other Blue was crying because she loved Gansey. And that the reason Gansey touched her like that, his fingers so careful with her, was because he knew that her kiss could kill him. She could feel how badly the other Blue wanted to kiss him, even as she dreaded it. Though she couldn't understand why, her real, present day memories in the tree cavity were clouded with other false memories of their lips nearly touching, a life this other Blue had already lived.Okay, I'm ready- Gansey's voice caught, just a little. Blue, kiss me.

If you fail, you will be sad. But if you quit, you will be mad. Don't give up on your dreams. Get up. You can do it!

Sadness is a vice.

As I've gotten older, I find I am able to be nourished more by sorrow and to distinguish it from depression.

There is no unhappier creature on earth than a fetishist who yearns for a woman's shoe and has to embrace the whole woman.

Janet rang up - and wept. To weep in a public call-box. There's desolation.

Nothing thicker than a knife's blade separates happiness from melancholy.

I saw sorrow turning into clarity.

I think writing about unhappiness is probably the source of my popularity, if I have any - after all, most people are unhappy, don't you think?

Unhappiness is best described as the difference between our talents and our expectations.

Sad soul, take comfort, nor forget that sunset never failed us yet.

The usual pretext of those who make others unhappy is that they do it for their own good.

Sadness is very close to hate.

I have the true feeling of myself only when I am unbearably unhappy.

I think if we all acted the way we felt, four out of eight people at a dinner table would be sitting there sobbing.

I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the saints.

Nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul.

There are times when sorrow seems the only truth.

They say when you are missing someone that they are probably feeling the same, but I don't think it's possible for you to miss me as much as I'm missing you right now

Everyone is a moon and has a dark side which he never shows to anybody.