Boredom is a terrible affliction of the soulless.

Some would assert that Providence was at work shaking out its pockets in Humanity's lap. Other would argue for that mindless choreographer, Chance. Either way it was a simple thing: a lost diary fell into the hands of a soul-sick war hero on a train from Bombay to Jaipur just when he'd grown tired of the scenery and needed something to keep his thoughts from the minefield of his wretched thoughts. In such mild ways is the groundwork laid for first kisses and ruined lives.

As long as you're alive, there's always a chance things will get better.

Brimstone once told me that to stay true in the face of evil is a feat of strength.

The thing is, you throw brains and souls into an animal and stir, you don’t really know what you’re going to get.

I miss sunrise even more. The green scent of dawn in the forest? The color blushing back into the world, different every day.

Better to be the cat gazing coolly down from a high wall, its expression inscrutable. The cat that shunned petting, that needed no one. Why couldn't she be that cat?