These days her entire life was about making people believe she was someone she wasn't anymore.

Words, for all they were flimsy and invisible, had great strength. They could be fortified as a castle wall and sharp as a foil. They could bite, slap, shock, wound. But unlike deeds, words couldn't really help you. No promise ever rescued a person; it was the carrying-through of it that brought about salvation.

But if you seek forgiveness, doesn't that automatically mean you cannot be a monster? By definition, doesn't that desperation make you human again?

Loneliness is a mirror, and recognizes itself.

That's why we read fiction, isn't it? To remind us that whatever we suffer, we're not the only ones?

Maybe if you spend your life pretending you're on a movie set, you don't ever have to admit that the walls are made out of paper and the food is plastic and the words in your mouth aren't really yours.

what made you happy once might not make you happy now.