sloughing my skin / escaping it's grip / stripped of my wit / it hurts to be me .

I thought you said scrying was a bad idea.” “It's like vodka,” Calla said. “It really depends on who's doing it.

This time, it was more of a thought than a feeling, a soft heat that began at her mouth and unfurled through the rest of her.

World of words lost on the living / I take my place with the walking dead / Robbed of my voice I'm always giving / Thousands of words to this nameless dread.

I’d always thought I was above being fascinated by anyone but myself.

Isabel had gone silent in a way that shouted the silence to me.

This object that we hold in our hands, a book... that tactile pleasure, it's just not going to go away.