It's like a cockroach working up a plan to defeat the shoe on its way down to crush it.

To hold on, you have to find something you’re willing to die for.

I was woefully ignorant in the social graces. I was being raised, after all, by Pellinore Warthrop.

When I cry - when I let myself cry - that's who I cry for. I don't cry for myself. I cry for the Cassie that's gone. And I wonder what that Cassie would think of me. The Cassie who kills.

You are the nest. You are the hatchling. You are the chrysalis. You are the progeny. You are the rot that falls from stars. You may not understand what I mean. You will.

The world is a clock winding down.

I don't move. I wait behind my log, terrified. Over the past ten minutes, it's become such a dear friend, I consider naming it: Howard, my pet log.