It’s not stalking if you don't follow them home, right?

You just mingled saliva with the most beautiful boy ever to tread the hallways of Saint Pock's. Saliva. There's DNA in saliva. You're like carrying his cells in your mouth like one of those weird frogs that incubates its eggs in its cheeks

Was there any fate more bitter than to get what you long for most, when it's too late?

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.

Mercy, she had discovered, made mad alchemy: a drop of it could dilute a lake of hate.

I want to build spires in their minds and dance shadows through like marionettes, chased by whispers and hints of the unspeakable.

My tiny scary friend is coming