There was a choice to be made, and Lena hadn't made it. The songs never lied. At least, they hadn't yet.

I believe the term you’re searching for is smoking jacket. I find, now that I have whole days of sunshine ahead of me, I’ve discovered there is more to life than formal haberdashery.

In death, lie. In living, cry. Carry me home to remember to be remembered.

My mom was there, in some form, in some sense, in some universe. My mom was still my mom, even if she only lived in books and door locks and the smell of fried tomatoes and old paper. She lived.

Are you accusing me of reading? ~ Ridley

It smelled like aging wood and creosote, plastic book covers, and old paper. Old paper, which my mom used to say was the smell of time itself.

Mortals. Everything is so black and white to you.