I have your back. I didn't mean only when it's easy. All the time.

Four sits down on the edge of the carousel, leaning against a plastic horse's foot. His eyes lift to the sky, where there are no stars, only a round moon peking through a thin layer of clouds. The muscles in his arms are relaxed; his hand rests on the back of his neck. He looks almost comfortable, holding that gun to his shoulder. I close my eyes briefly. Why does he distract me so easily? I need to focus.

Writing means not just staring ugliness in the face, but finding a way to embrace it.

I feel a thread tugging me again, but this time I know that it isn’t some sinister force dragging me toward death. This time I know it’s my mother's hand, drawing me into her arms. And I go gladly into her embrace.

I figured I would shoot the bullets out of my nostrils, so I left [the gun] upstairs.

I'm surprised you know that," I say quietly, " since you left halfway through my one and only fight." "It wasn't something I wanted to watch." he says. What's that supposed to mean?

If someone offer you an opportunity to get closer to your enemy, you always take it.