I fell headfirst into a sinkhole of pretty things, and the world inside your eyelids is just as big as the one outside.

The things I had were mine and some of them were broken, but they were real. They were so very far from nothing.

From the window, I watch the city and the freeway. In the distance, the sky-rises look like mystic spires, unbearably close and far. I want to pick them up and eat them. I want to scream out loud sometimes, but I never do.

But what Davenport had been born into had taken so much from her, leaving her with just the wickedest and the worst. Her father had given her life, and then taken every scrap of joy or freedom, and even now that he was dead, all he had left her with was a deep, abiding hatred for what she was.

People make decisions, and maybe you don't always agree, but those choices are still their own.

That was the thing about being bereaved. People were overcome with sympathy. They did things for you without even considering whether or not it was the right thing to do.

It's strange, but seeing something broken is somehow worse when you can tell that it used to be beautiful.