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

A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.

My life was pouring out my feet and seeping through cracks in the floor; yet still I knelt and did not move, for fear she'd let go my hands. Let me stay, I wanted to beg: Please don't make me go.

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

Strange how love coexists with hate, how they render eachother mute, how the swilling of them together makes a new and softer, sympathetic thing.

You're not supposed to have iron bars around you - no one is supposed to have that. You're supposed to fall down hills and get lonely, and find your own food and get wet when it rains. That's what happens when you're alive.

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