Life…never gave me a chance to be soft.

In the enclave, the strong and the physically perfect survived, but if you were strong, you protected the weak until they had an opportunity to grow into their own power.

The whole world is like Whitewall's razors I burst out. It cuts us, and we bleed but there's no purpose to it.

His face held a certain impassivity; you see it in all waiters and valets. They might want to jam a knife through your left eye socket, but you'd never know it from their expression. Working retail, I've acquired a similar look myself.

There’s a hollow where he used to be, and it echoes with self-imposed loss.

Just . . . love me, and let tomorrow look after itself.

Because it takes more courage to heal the world's hurts than to inflict them.