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.

You have a way of looking at things. You make it seem as though everything's going to be okay. I can't imagine a more dangerous thing to have than hope like yours.

Fate, I think, is a thief.

Because even if the lie is beautiful, the truth is what you face in the end.

I think he's beginning to understand, and understanding is a horrible thing.

It was a terrible decision, and I confess I'd make it again.

Dystopian, by definition, promises a darker story.