Margo was not a miracle. She was not an adventure. She was not a fine and precious thing. She was a girl.

“So dawn goes down to day, the poet wrote. Nothing gold can stay.”

“El dolor es como una tela: cuanto más fuerte es, más valor tiene" ¿Es eso ciert…”

“and that we had to forgive to survive in the labyrinth.”

“Plus, I like being liked. Is that crazy?”