The dog pranced delightedly around his feet as if he'd been gone to another planet instead of merely underneath a car.

He danced on the knife’s edge between awareness and sleep. When he dreamt like this, he was a king. The world was his to bend. His to burn.

I'm already waiting when Puck gets to the top of the cliffs. I'm not the only one; about two dozen race tourists have made perches out of rocks, watching Corr and me as closely as they dare. Puck glares at them all, searing enough that some of them flinch in surprise. I'm not certain what to expect from her after last night. I don't know how to address her. I don't know what she expects from me or what I expect from me. What I get is a wordless hello and a November cake in my hand.

In the end, you have to write like you're not afraid of the critics.

It wasn’t a touch that said I need more. It was a touch that said I want this.

So here's my theory, and this is such crap science, I don't have to tell you. It's science without microscopes, blood tests, or reality.

she waited to change , and i waited to change , and we both wanted what we couldn't have