Children are a battle of a different sort. ... A battle without banners or warhorns but no less fierce.

There’s part of me that loves words. But sometimes it feels like you’re trying to drive nails with your shoe.

He had found over the years that silence sometimes yielded more than questions. And so it was this time.

Dark wings, dark words.

but the real enemy is the cold. It steals up on you quieter than Will, and at first you shiver and your teeth chatter and you stamp your feet and dream of mulled wine and nice hot fires. It burns, it does. Nothing burns like the cold. But only for a while. Then it gets inside you and starts to fill you up, and after a while you don't have the strength to fight it. It's easier just to sit down ot go to sleep. They say you don't feel any pain toward the end. First you go weak and drowsy, and everything starts to fade, and then it's like sinking into a sea of warm milk. Peaceful, like.

More details, more devils.

When we speak of the morrow nothing is ever certain.