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.

You can't be afraid. You can be sad if you like. You can be angry. But it's the fear that'll freeze you in place.

Living in a place like this, she must have learned how to see all the monsters that can hide a person.

There's a sort of dead passion in him. A spark that, had he more years to live, would be a wildfire.

When I am writing anything in general, I just want to tell the story that exists in my head; I don't try to write a parable or make a point.

I wanted so badly to tell him, but something about that entire night seemed so beautiful, so bizarre, that I didn't trust it with my secrets.

We writers are resilient souls.