Shadows of cloud lurked in the water, like holes the sun forgot about.

And then there's the sickness I feel from looking at legs I can't touch, or at lips that don't smile at me. Or hips that don't reach for me. And hearts that don't beat for me.

People die of broken hearts. They have heart attacks. And it's the heart that hurts most when things go wrong and fall apart.

Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. "It's okay. It's just...I'm not too good at talking to people." She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. "So, do you think it'd be all right if we don't talk?

I thought what if death is more like thinking, well, war is like the boss at your shoulder, constantly wanting more, wanting more, wanting more, and then that gave me the idea that Death is weary, he's fatigued, and he's haunted by what he sees humans do to each other because he's on hand for all of our great miseries.

When death captures me," the boy vowed, "he will feel my fist in his face." (31.26)

Failure has been my best friend as a writer. It tests you, to see if you have what it takes to see it through.