Every time you think of escaping mentally or physically, grab the book that lies inches away from your heart.

After all, I had been waiting decades for it to come. I wanted to escape this world, but only it could help me.

That's the funny thing about trying to escape. You never really can. Maybe temporarily, but not completely.

If you truly want to be respected by people you love, you must prove to them that you can survive without them.

She walked forward, feeling the dew on the grass with each step. She tightened her eyes, welcoming the darkness.

Pain is usually all on the surface, but this terror is internal; not just a hurt, but a new language of feeling.

To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.

I was always able to lose myself in reading. Books were a necessary escape I always gladly jumped into headfirst.

But if these years have taught me anything it is this: you can never run away. Not ever. The only way out is in.

This was the time in her life that she fell upon books as the only door out of her cell. They became half her world.

When you talk about escape, know that it doesn’t take place from the front. Hidden paths are always on the back.

The motive for our actions doesn't lie ahead of us. It's something behind us that we're trying to escape.

Some writers aren't writers, they are mere escapees' and refugees' on an exile from the jungle of thoughts.

She toyed around with his smiles and emotions, till they actually turned plastic. And then, She changed the toy…

I want to drag knives over my skin, just to feel something other than shame, but I'm not even brave enough for that