Perhaps sunlight had always been luminous, and doorways signs of greater passage than that of one room to another. But she’d not noticed it until now.

It was as though in these last minutes together - when they had so much to say - they could say nothing of the least significance, for fear it open the floodgates.

Books should make somebody look at how they feel, be honest with themselves.

Writing about the unholy is one way of writing about what is sacred.

She wanted nothing that he could offer her, except perhaps his absence.

being with people makes me vomit. I don't like em. I never did.

Well, it was most likely too late; there would not be time for me to flagellate myself for every dishonorable deed in that list, nor any chance to make good the harms I’d done. Minor harms, to be sure, in the scheme of things; but large enough to regret.