And I guess that's when it starts to hit me: the whole point is, you do what you can.

His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.

It's as though the words are trapped, buried under past fears, past lives, like fossils compressed under layers of dirt.

You should only fall in love with people who will fall in love with you back.

That is what hatred is. It will feed you and at the same time turn you to rot. It is hard and deep and angular, a system of blockades. It is everything and total. Hatred is a high tower. In the Wilds, I start to build, and to climb.

Lies are just stories, and stories are all that matter. We all tell stories. Some are more truthful than others, maybe, but in the end the only thing that counts is what you can make people believe.

Life isn't life if you just float through it.