The wound you refuse to dress is one that will never heal. You gush lifeblood and never even know why. It will make you weak at a critical moment when you need to be strong.

Try a rocket launcher. Think maybe you could manage to hit me with that?

If you're trying to force the story to be a straight up romance, it's going to be weird for you.

No way. I'm not going in there. I draw the line at grave-robbing, Barrons. It's not your pen.

I make a new discovery that totally blows; dying is the easy part. It's coming back to life that sucks.

It's a sponge and I'm a sponge and for a second there all our sponge parts are one and I don't just have square pants, everything about me is squarish because I'm part of a wall.

A wing or a thigh? Ah, I'm afraid we don't have any thighs left.