If you gave someone your heart and they died, did they take it with them? Did you spend the rest of forever with a hole inside you that couldn't be filled?

Maybe the reason I've never died in this story is that I've never had something worth dying for before.

If you didn't remember something happening, was it because it never had happened? Or because you wished it hadn't?

That's the strange thing about being a mother: until you have a baby, you don't even realize how much you were missing one

I've always sort of wondered: If everyone else's opinion is what matters, then do you ever really have one of your own?

Fiction is like that, once it is released into the world: contagious, persistent. Like the contents of Pandora's box, a story that's freely given can't be contained anymore. It becomes infectious, spreading from the person who created it to the person who listens, and passes it on.

Close a door, and you'd still feel a breeze through the window.