Our tragedy is that we forget it might be someone else first.

You are the best kind of killer, Cassel Sharpe, the kind that never has blood on his hands. The kind that never has to sicken at the sight of what he's done, or come to like it too much.

I survive at the edge of friends circles.

She wears trouble like a crown. If she ever falls in love, she’ll fall like a comet, burning the sky as she goes.

After that, she wasn't sure what the game was or if she'd imagined it. All she knew was that she had lost.

They say that nameless things change constantly—that names fix them in place like pins.

But now I wonder--what if everyone is pretty much the same and it's just a thousand small choices that add up to the person you are? No good or evil, no black and white, no inner demons or angels whispering the right answers in our ears like it's some cosmic SAT test. Just us, hour by hour, minute by minute, day by day,making the best choices we can. The thought is horrifying. If that's true, then there's no right choice. There's only choice.