the power of a text is not time-bound. The words go on doing their work.

When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.

As people get older they have these rigid patterns that they impose on themselves, and it kills them. They become dull, they become dead to new experience, they become afraid, biased, and bigoted. It's really simply to do with refusing new experience.

Even the most solid of things, and the most real, the best-loved and the well-known, are only hand shadows on the wall. Empty space and points of light.

For fate may hang on any moment and at any moment be changed.

With animal behavior, they're all fine until you introduce some rogue element into the cage, and then they go crazy.

In the presence of love, hearth and quest become one.