Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.

Love could never bloom in a concrete block room.

Isn't it funny.I'm enjoying my hatred so much more than i ever enjoyed love. Love is temperamental. Tiring. It makes demands. Love uses you, changes its mind. But hatred, now, that's something you can use. Sculpt. Wield. It's hard, or soft, however you need it. Love humiliates you, but Hatred cradles you.

she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.

She was starting to think there might be such a thing as karma - that repetition - maybe you lived through the same thing over and over until you stopped caring. Maybe eventually it got less intense, until it was just nothing.

What happened to a dream without a dreamer?

A novel is like a dream in which everyone is you. They’re all parts of yourself.