Murder had a blood red door on the other side of which was everything unimaginable to everyone.

I had always been in love with him. I counted the lashes of each closed eye. He had been my almost, my might have been, and I did not want to leave him

But also I wanted him to go away and leave me be. I was granted one weak grace. Back in the room where the green chair was still warm from his body, I blew that lonely, flickering candle out

The relationship with the words someone uses is more intimate and integrated than just a quick read and a blurb can ever be. This intimacy - the words on the page being sent back and forth from engaged editor to open author - is unique in my experience.

Murderers are not monsters, they're men. And that's the most frightening thing about them.

I missed her then but it was an odd sort of missing because by then, I knew the meaning of forever.

I dont think ignorance is a way that you gain distance on something.