He is strong, and lithe, and certain. And he is mine.

His eyes search the crowd until they find my face. My heartbeat lives in my throat; lives in my cheeks. "I still don't understand," he says softly, "how she knew that it would work.

Why do you say vague things if you don't want to be asked about them?

Do remember, though, that sometimes the people you oppress become mightier than you would like.

Don't confuse your grief with guilt.

I like to think I'm helping them by hating them. I'm reminding them that they aren't God's gift to humankind.

Noise and activity are the refuges of the bereaved and the guilty.