So eager for eternal damnation.

All the lines that held me to my life were sliced apart in swift cuts, like clipping the strings of a bunch of balloons. Everything that made me who I was - my love for the dead girl upstairs, my love for my father, my loyalty to my new pack, the love for my other brothers, my hatred for my enemies, my home, my name, my self - disconnected from me in that second - snip, snip, snip - and floated up into space.

How did anyone survive this world, with these bodies whose memories wouldn't stay in the past where they should? With the emotions that were so strond I couldn't tell what I felt anymore?

Once you cared about a person, it was impossible to be logical about them anymore.

It's easier to come up with new stories than it is to finish the ones you already have. I think every author would feel that way.

I think she's having hysterics. Maybe you should slap her.

I always write things that entertain me, and one of the things that I find really enjoyable to explore is the idea of love. I like looking at my own life and my friends and family and how love changes who you are. It fascinates me.