A strange thing, words. Once they're said, it's hard to imagine they're untrue.

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.

She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.

When we're alive, life consumes us. But when we die, all of the color and the motion is gone so quickly, it's as though it can no longer stand to be wasted on us.

There is warmth shooting through my broken body where there should be pain, and I put my arms around the back of his neck and I hold on to him. I hold on because you never know in this place when something good will be taken away.

Kettle thingies. Yum.

I don't know if it was love or an illusion. I don't know if there's ever a way to be certain.