When reason sleeps, the monsters of repression will emerge.

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

Oh, Grey, no one really likes keeping secrets. The only thing that makes a secret fun is knowing that you weren't supposed to tell it.

Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.

Hope, how she had grown to hate the word. It was an insideious seed planted inside a person's soul, surviving covertly on little tending, then flowering so spectacularly that none could help but cherish it.

... people who'd led dull and blameless lives did not give thanks for second chances.

We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.