I am a monster because I have too much of something.
Dying wasn't so bad, not really. Not when you could go out like this, on a summer's evening with the fireflies winking in the trees. She always thought dying would be a scream into a void, a thrashing...
Flesh, blood, bone--the body is only a container for who we truly are inside.
Perhaps they never die at all. I quite believe that myself, and it is a comfort, don't you think? That there is a place where no one ever grows old?
Call it sentimentality. Call it curiosity. Just don't call it madness.
Believing in nothing except the truth of Montgomery, who for all his faults was as steady as the sea, as honest as the sun. My eyes watered with unexpected tears, and I kissed him harder, desperately....
The ways of men and women are such a puzzle. And I could barely decipher my own feelings, let along anyone else's.
Sometimes you have to embrace the darkness to stop it.
No serum can vhange who you are. Nor should you change. Genius or madness--it al depends on who's telling the story.
Apparently profanity had a way of making men listen.
You and me, we look out for each other. But I will take care of you a little extra, because I am your person, and you will always be my special horse.
