He's never going to sit at my feet and write me poems, which is good because I hate poetry, except dirty ones that rhyme.

Is that love? It seems like a pale word, too easily tossed about by people who don’t know the meaning of it, who twist it for their own ends. I’m afraid of it now, right up there with clowns, close spaces, and open flames.

Beautiful. And ugly. The world is always both.

Love can make us do dreadful things.

Nobility and self-sacrifice sound wonderful in theory, but now he’s seen how it feels. A dead hero is still dead at the end of the day, and you’re still alone.

But it was like a dance across a field strewn with razors, and I bled with every step I took.

For peace to take hold, one person must first stop fighting.