Idiot people like Angel Delaporte who look for a supernatural reason for ordinary events, those people drive Misty nuts.

You must realize that one day you will die. Until then you are worthless.

I need to rebel against myself. It's the opposite of following your bliss. I need to do what I most fear.

In the big factory of perfecting human souls, the Earth was kind of tumbler. The sale as the kind people use to polish rocks. All souls come here to rub the sharp edges off each other. This isn't suffering. It's erosion.

If you ask me, most people have children just as their own enthusiasm about life begins to wane.

Inside me is the same desperate hope I have watching the ravenous dead and thinking, Oh please, oh please, oh please. The craving inside of me is to be clutched at by some dead girl. To put my ear to her chest and hear nothing. Even getting munched on by zombies beats the idea that I'm only flesh and blood, skin and bone. Demon or angel or evil spirit, I just need something to show itself. Ghoulie or ghosty or long-legged beastie, I just want my hand held.

We're so structured and micromanaged, this isn't a world anymore, it's a damn cruise ship.