It gets tiresome being spoken to as if you are a child, even if you happen to be one.

I don't speak fluent bumpkin.

But to love something despite. To know the flaws and love them too. This is rare and pure and perfect.

Hours later the blank sheet still stared at me, and I beat my fist against the desk in fury and fustration, striking it so hard my hand bled. That is how heavy a secret can become. It can make blood flow easier than ink.

Sometimes I go outside after a long stretch of writing and I'm surprised it's not raining. Or that it's daylight. Or that it's not the middle of winter. I don't know if that level of immersion is normal, but it's now I do things. I like it. It works well for me.

Just a little. Just the first faint breath of love... It wasn’t dramatic, like some bolt of lightning with a crack of thunder following. It was more like when flint strikes steel and the spark fades almost too fast for you to see. But still, you know it’s there, down where you can’t see, kindling.

What do they do to students at the University who eavesdrop?” Bast asked curiously. “I haven’t the slightest idea. I was never caught. I think making you sit and listen to the rest of my story should be punishment enough.