Over this odd world, this half the world that's dark now, I have to hunt a thing that lives on tears.

You know how cats do. They hide to die. Dogs come home.

It rubs the lotion on its skin. It does this whenever it is told.

Nothing made me happen. I happened.

I'm doing one of three things: I'm writing. I'm staring out the window. Or I'm writhing on the floor.

I have no interest in understanding sheep, only eating them.

Shiloh isn’t haunted – men are haunted. Shiloh doesn’t care.