It was stealing her breath, imbecile. Go get a towel." -Christophe, Strange Angels by Lili St. Crow

Lucas went even paler. “Then you’re on the track to suicide,” he whispered. “Take my advice, Valentine. Run. Run as fast as you can, for as long as you can. Steal whatever bit of life you can. You’re already dead.

Christophe, with the careful tone of an adult telling a kid not to pet the nice foaming-rabid pooch.

I pulled in a soft breath. My lungs were starving, crying out for air. I lay still, and a cough tickled at the back of my throat. It always happens when you're hiding, a cough, a sneeze, something. It's stupid. The body decides to screw around with you, even though it knows being quiet is the only way it's going to go on living.

Come take a look at one of the oldest human urges- religion. After all, the only thing that makes us screwier is sex.

He wiped away the tears, tenderly, and I forgot to weep as he told me silently everything I always wanted to hear.

You can't ever stop thinking something quick enough. Something that hurts always gets the knife in too fast for you to slam a lid on it and shove it away.