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

That's a depressing and practical thought," Sam said. "I'd rather it was something magical.

Oh, filmmakers, please don't take my soft book and turn it into a horror, or take my horror and make it soft.

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

Your hair is all funky in the morning.

Gift of time in me enclosed the future suddenly exposed

Everything mattered and nothing did, and I was tired of trying to find out how both of those things were true. I was an itch that I'd scratched so hard I was bleeding. I had set out to do the impossible, whatever the impossible might be, only to find out that it was living with myself. Suicide became an expiration date, the day after which I no longer had to try.