It's never right to give up on someone.

Hope, that risky, illustrious thing. It should have gone extinct by now, but we keep it alive.

I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.

Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.

The seeds are tiny, unborn things, and I resent them. They'll be planted and they'll grow into exactly what they're meant to be.

None of the wives mention the security guards by the door, who will probably tackle us to the ground if we try to leave without our husbands.

They never exhale, the trees; on a very windy day, they rustle and inhale, and then the leaves and the branches all tremble as though something means to strangle the life from them. The sky watches on. The world is filled with anticipation, as if to wonder if this day will be a great day, or a horrible day, or the last day.