The spring rains woke the dormant tillers, and bright green shoots sprang from the moist earth and rose like sleepers stretching after a long nap. As spring gave way to summer, the bright green stalks darkened, became tan, turned golden brown. The days grew long and hot. Thick towers of swirling black clouds brought rain, and the brown stems glistened in the perpetual twilight that dwelled beneath the canopy. The wheat rose and the ripening heads bent in the prairie wind, a rippling curtain, an endless, undulating sea that stretched to the horizon.

A moment comes in war when the last line must be crossed. The line that separates what you hold dear from what total war demands. If he couldn't cross that line, the battle was over, and he was lost. His heart, the war. Her face, the battlefield. With a cry only he could hear, the hunter turned. And ran.

Why did they come billions of miles just to stare at us? It's rude.

Yes, my dear child, monsters are real. I happen to have one hanging in my basement.

To hell with monsters and to hell with men. There is no difference to me.

If the world breaks a million and one promises, can you trust the million and second?

You're mortal, and only a mortal can afford to be romantic. When we conquered death, we murdered love.