That Shay was in possesion of hand grenades was a comforting thought showed what kind of night this had become.

Tally turned away. Five minutes was suddenly too long to stand here, eyes burning, unable to cry.

Typographical laziness was slowly destroying our culture, according to Lexa and her pals. Inexactitude was death.

Haven't you ever known someone rejected by a lover, who, consumed by rage and jealousy, never lets go? They look on from a distance, unseen but boiling inside. The emotion never seems to tire, this hatred mixed with intense obsession, even with a kind of twisted love.

People only worry about the uncanny for about a week; that's the end of their attention span. After that, suspicions turn into shtick.

The human heart is a strange vessel. Love and hatred can exist side by side.

Junkies might be easy to knock down, but they're never fragile. They have souls like old leather shoes studded with steel, and they're about as much good as friends.