Black is the color of night. White is the true color of death

And Kingsley being Kingsley, he smiled as he pretended to pull the trigger.

Memories were moving pictures in which meaning was constantly in flux. They were stories people told themselves.

When their lips met, and their tongues touched, it was like they were kissing in a hundred different places, and her senses were flooded with new sensations and old memoires. He kissed her, and their souls melted into each other in a melody older than time.

Instead of fearing the future, I should live and enjoy the present, she told herself.

She could not trust herself to hope—but without hope, she realized, she had no reason to go on.

You made a sacrifice. And heaven rewarded you.