‘Nothing ever happens like you imagine it will,’ she says. The sky is like a monochromatic contemporary painting, drawing me in with its illusion of depth, pulling me up. ‘Yeah, that’s true,’ I say. But then after I think about it for a second, I add, ‘But then again, if you don’t imagine, nothing ever happens at all.’ Imagining isn’t perfect. You can’t get all the way inside someone else. I could never have imagined Margo’s anger at being found, or the story she was writing over. But imagining being someone else, or the world being something else, is the only way in. It is the machine that kills fascists.
– ‘Paper Towns’ by John Green