The conversation of bullets.
Clearly," said Arthur,"you're an idiot- but you're our kind of idiot. Come on.
It's my heart that is tired. A thirteen-year-old heart shouldn't feel like this.
It's a lot easier, she realized, to be on the verge of something than to actually be it. This would still take time.
The injury of words. Yes, the brutality of words.
The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems.