But monsters, I now know, come in all shapes and sizes, and only their appetite for human flesh defines them.

I don't care what the stars say about how small we are. One, even the smallest, weakest, most insignificant one, matters.

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

But if I'm it, the last of my kind, the last page of human history, like hell I'm going to let the story end this way. I may be the last one, but I am the one still standing. I am the one turning to face the faceless hunter in the woods on an abandoned highway. I am the one not running but facing. Because if I am the last one, then I am humanity. And if this is humanity's last war, then I am the battlefield.

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.

We are the clay, and you are Michelangelo. And we will be your masterpiece.

We’re here, and then we’re gone, and it’s not about the time we’re here, but what we do with the time.