Normally Connor would walk away from a conversation like this. His life is about tangibles: things you can see, hear and touch. God, souls, and all that has always been like a secret in a black box he couldn't see into, so it was easier just to leave it alone. Only now, he's inside the black box.

I think all mothers are alike, regardless of cultural background, when it comes to illogical cleaning.

Walls don't fall without effort.

I smell fear, he said with a quiet intensity. But not nearly enough.

Already Roland feels his limbs starting to go numb. He swallows hard. "I hate this. I hate you. I hate all of you." "I understand.

How do you judge the brightness of a light when you’re the source? A spotlight can never see the shadows it casts.

It's called loitering, which is like littering with human beings as the trash.