And Ronan was everything that was left: molten eyes and a smile made for war.

I do all of my good thinking at over 65 miles per hour. The speed limit is, luckily, the same speed as my brainstorming speed.

I'm sorry no one saved you.

In Ronan's hand, the mask was as thin as a sheet of paper, still warm from Adam's gasped breaths. Orphan Girl buried her face in his side, her body shaking with sobs. Her tiny voice was muffled: "Tollerere me a hic, tollerere me a hic..." Take me away from here, take me away from here.

You’re my change of skin / my summer-winter-fall / I spring to follow you / this loss is beautiful.

It was one frayed rope thrown across the chasm between us. Not enough to get across, but maybe just enough to tell that it wasn't as wide as I'd originally thought.

Arbores loqui latine. The trees speak Latin.