She hadn't wanted to be loved carefully, only well.

She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.

She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

To abandon a child, she had once said to someone, when she thought Cassandra couldn't hear, was an act so cold, so careless, it refused forgiveness.

Thinking of nothing. Trying to think of nothing. Thinking of everything.

I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind; I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.

Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.