But the face on the pillow, rosy in the firelight, is certainly that of Clarice Starling, and she sleeps deeply, sweetly, in the silence of the lambs.
Over this odd world, this half the world that's dark now, I have to hunt a thing that lives on tears.
How seldom we recognize the sound when the bolt of our fate slides home.
Shiloh isn’t haunted – men are haunted. Shiloh doesn’t care.
And be grateful. Our scars have the power to remind us that the past was real.
The advantage of beating a mute is he can't tell on you.