Was it harder to die, or harder to be the one who survived?
I wasn't certain of anything anymore, except that New Orleans was a faithless friend and I wanted to leave her.
Charlie Marlowe never wrote horror, but somehow horror was writing Charlie Marlowe.
I felt as if I were riding a pendulum. Just as I would swing into the abyss of hopelessness, the pendulum would swing back with some small goodness.
Decisions, they shape our destiny.
Whether love of friend, love of country, love of God, or even love of enemy—love reveals to us the truly miraculous nature of the human spirit.