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.

If you can't imagine it, think clumsy silence. Think bits and pieces of floating despair. And drowning in a train.

It's about glowing lights and small things that are big.

It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.

She rubbed her eyes, and after a long study of his face, she spoke "Is it really you?" Is it from your cheek, she thought, that I took the seed? The man nodded. His heart wobbled and he held tighter to the branches. It is.

You can kill a man with those words. No gun. No bullets. Just words and a girl.

How do you tell if something's alive? You check for breathing.