Thank God for imminent doomsday.

All of those faeries and duels and mad queens and so on, and no one quoted old Billy Shakespeare. Not even once.

Being here? With you? I've met my subconscious, and he's not that sick.

We are not going to die." Butters stared up at me, pale, his eyes terrified. "We're not?" No. And do you know why?" He shook his head. "Because Thomas is too pretty to die. And because I'm too stubborn to die." I hauled on the shirt even harder. "And most of all because tomorrow is Oktoberfest, Butters, and polka will never die.

Sullen monosyllabism, a sure sign of sleep deprivation.

It was one of those moments that would have had dramatic music if my life were a movie, but instead I got a radio jingle for some kind of submarine sandwich place blaring over the store's ambient stereo. The movie of my life must be really low-budget.

Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of trauma, I will fear no concussion.