Her name is Wanda, not it. You will not touch her. Any mark you leave on her, I will double on your worthless hide.

Twilight, again. Another ending. No matter how perfect the day is, it always has to end.

They call her my singer—because her blood sings for me.

It's just that, I know how you're unhappy a lot. And, maybe it doesn't help anything, but I wanted you to know that I'm always here. I won't ever let you down―I promise that you can always count on me. Wow, that does sound corny. But you know that, right? That I would never, ever hurt you?" "Yeah Jake. I know that. And I already do count on you, probably more than you know.

Vampirism, for me, was a way to live in fantasy and have superpowers, but not just in a really perfect, happy, everything is great way. It's superpowers with a cost. It's having to be the villain, and what do you do about that.

Time passes. Even when it seems impossible. Even when each tick of the second hand aches like the pulse of blood behind a bruise. It passes unevenly, in strange lurches and dragging lulls, but pass it does. Even for me.

I can always make things longer than I intend for them to be, but cutting things down is just brutal. It's like cutting off your fingers every time you lose a word.