Following a tragedy, grief comes in waves, each bigger than the previous, each carrying a new component of pain.
Do you know how a gun works? They hurt you. They can. I shot a bullet into the back of Molly’s head so she wouldn’t be sick or sad anymore. Did it hurt her?
You can reign in hell here on the outside, or serve in heaven, back in Pines.
What a miracle it is to have people to come home to every day.To be loved.To be expected.
There’s a theory in the field of aesthetics called the uncanny valley. It holds that when something looks almost like a human being—a mannequin or humanlike robot—it creates revulsion in the observer,...
Theresa wipes her face and turns away from the window.
The day wears on. The light fades. It snows harder with each passing hour. Up and down Main, Christmas lights wink on.
Sorry. The shard clinked.
Run, Scott hissed. They’re coming.
Perhaps once he had been a good clown. A noble clown. But he’d stolen Randall’s chainsaw, and had to die.
Perfection was a surface thing. The epidermis. Cut a few layers deep, you begin to see some darker shades.
Nothing exists. All is a dream. God—man—the world—the sun, the moon, the wilderness of stars—a dream, all a dream; they have no existence. Nothing exists save empty space—and you . . . And you are not...
No dream without the nightmare.
Nature doesn’t see things through the prism of good or bad. It rewards efficiency.
Life had become something you clung to, that you bit down hard on against the pain, like the rubber block in a session of electroshock therapy.
I’m sure that’s just what Mr. Worthington was thinking as Luther Kite butchered him. ‘Boy, I’m glad I have this faith.
If all time is eternally present All time is unredeemable. —T. S. Eliot, Burnt Norton
I want her in a way I can’t explain.That I don’t ever want to be able to explain, because the mystery of it is a perfect thing.
I said this is Boise, but it’s not. There is no Boise, no Idaho, no America. Names no longer mean a thing.
I heard something up ahead.