I suppose that's what happens when you make other people's lives miserable: life gets miserable back at you.

Let me fly, let me see things that are hidden from other eyes.

I am dying: it's a beautiful word. Like the long slow sigh of the cello: dying. But the sound of it is the only beautiful thing about it.

She doesn't understand that doors, walls, fences, ceilings - they're helpless to keep out what determinedly desires to get in.

Nothing was easy, and sometimes she failed, and sometimes she thought that the fairy stories were right, that there must indeed be easier ways of living happily ever after; but defeat is a poor ending to any tale, so she kept trying.

Life is lived on the inside. What's outside doesn't matter.

Every atom in me feels composed of lead. This is what dying is: a pull to the ground.