I type in one place, but I write all over the house.

But to find out the truth about how dreams die, one should never take the word of the dreamer.

Never did he once consider directing his hatred toward the hunters. Such an emotion would have destroyed him ... His subconscious knew what his min did not guess-that hating them would have consumed him, burned him up like a piece of soft coal, leaving only flakes of ash and a question mark of smoke.

Not knowing it was hard; knowing it was harder

Birth, life, and death― each took place on the hidden side of a leaf.

If there's a book you really want to read, but it hasn't been written yet, then you must write it.

Love just seems to make life not just livable, but a gallant, gallant event.