Death stands behind every bride, every groom.

You humans, you know, whoever built you sewed irony into your sinews.

When little ones say they want to go home, they almost never mean it. They mean they are tired of this particular game and would like to start another.

But lost children always find each other, in the dark, in the cold. It is as though they are magnetized, and can only attract their like.

…everything has a narrative, really, and if you can’t understand a story and relate to it, figure out how you fit inside it, you’re not really alive at all.

Her father’s shadow looked sadly down at her. “You can never forget what you do in a war, September my love. No one can. You won’t forget your war either.

You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast.