Terror is the desire to save your own ass, but horror is rooted in sympathy.
I am; I was. I want to be.
I will be waiting by candlelight in our tree house of the mind.
... people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.
And he paddled away in his douche canoe.
Was there any human urge more pitiful-or more intense- than wanting another chance at something?