I'm always sure of what I do," he said. "Sometimes I was just never sure there was supposed to be a happy ending.

Wow, you're never allowed to sleep late again. You're crankier than a fat guy in stilettos.

There was something striking about her posture; something about the tilt to her head. She was like a beautiful and lonely piece of art, lovely but unreachable.

It was possible that I'd thrown one too many Molotov cocktails over God's fence.

Eventually, the Gray Man thought, if he resisted using it for long enough, he himself might forget his own name, and became someone else entirely.

I thought, possibly, that what I really needed was to go where nobody knew me and start over again, with none of my previous decisions, conversations, or expectations coming with me.

There was something awful about terror trapped behind silence.