Of course, I'm being rude. I'm spoiling the ending, not only of the entire book, but of this particular piece of it. I have given you two events in advance, because I don't have much interest in building mystery. Mystery bores me. It chores me. I know what happens and so do you. It's the machinations that wheel us there that aggravate, perplex, interest, and astound me. There are many things to think of. There is much story.

I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

The commitment had disappeared, and although he still watched the imagined glory of stealing, she could see now he was not believing. He was trying to believe it, and that’s never a good sign.

It kills me sometimes, how people die.

It's funny, don't you think, how time seems to do a lot of things? It flies, it tells, and worst of all, it runs out.