Death never comes at the right time, despite what mortals believe. Death always comes like a thief.

Sometimes, if I am not careful, and I stare too long at a flower, it shrivels and dies.

Yet, ironically, it is her very wretchedness that makes me pity her so. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't know what to do!

This problem - it is age old. To do what is right and save the day without destroying the very thing the day is lived for.

I went to work at the library. I know that sounds crazy but I didn't know where else to go. Besides, at the library I was constantly surrounded by people. And I loved my job, surrounded by so many books, so many lives, so much of the past.

One does not beg for a glass of water from the devil.

I would look up at the moon and see that it was not the smooth orb we had all believed, but a pitted and scarred world with no air.