At the heart of any terror is the fear of losing what we find meaningful.
Scars are the paler pain of survival received unwillingly and displayed in the language of injury.
Everyone loves the Dream but I kill it.
Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.
...she still cannot resist looking out the window every couple of minutes. The sound of a passing truck causes her to glance away. Even if there is no sound, the weight of a hundred seconds always turns her head.
Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.