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.

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.

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

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

It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.

Sometimes we don't know how afraid we are until we've reached a strange door and we don't know what will be on the other side.

It's quiet for a while, and then Rowan says; "We could talk now. We're alone out here. No walls." "There are always walls." I say.