I'm not going anywhere.

What did she care what became of this world when her loved ones were dead and gone?

Writing is the voices inside our heads, our minds, the creativity that exists for us to, from nothing, create alternate worlds, manipulate a personality or to introduce a new kind of love, a new kind of hate or pain or happiness or wonder or... anything we want. Through words, we can do, we can be anything we want.

She was addicted to literature like some people were addicted to heroin.

Now, Emily didn't make a sound. There was something more defining about the soundless reality that condemned the paradigm of passion.

He dropped the joint in the dirt and ran inside. It wasn't his first, and wouldn't be his last. The joint, that is. Not the kid. He was pretty sure, at this point, that he would never have sexual relations with his wife again.

You are a stupid fucking woman, Emily Colt. Just like all your kind. I know you hate Americans, but—I never said I hated Americans, Sergei spat. I said your kind. Women. It doesn’t matter to me what country you’re from. You women are fucking stupid, and I’m tired of saving you. All of you.

What to do with life? Get out of bed, Derek. That’s what you do. You get out of bed, and you get yourself a cup of fucking coffee. That’s all you can do.

The universe requires balance. Nothing, nothing, can exist without it. There is no life, no light, without death, without darkness. There is no memory… without emptiness.

Let her go,” Brendan said, and Will did. And that was the biggest mistake of his life. Letting her go.

The sound of her phone shocked her out of the dark world that was currently playing in front of her eyes from the book in her lap. She wondered sometimes, why she bothered with books. If she wanted to hallucinate, all she had to do was get up in the morning.

She ignored his feverish, sweaty skin, his violent trembles, and she kissed him. As he passionately held her against him, the whole world disappeared. It was just him. It had always been him.

Anytime his gaze fell upon her, it was always the same. That awful chest pain, so relentless it was like his heart exploded.

He kissed her, lay next to her on his bed, pulled her to him. Their foreheads pressed flat against one another, the admiration in their eyes intricately adjoined as one enchanted gaze, he said, "Stay.""Yes," she said. She knew what he meant. Stay with me tonight, sleep in my bed with me tomorrow, but she meant it the other way. Forever.

He will give his life, for anything he feels has more of a right to live than he. Make no mistake, Elias. He's a Reed. It's what he does.

I already live like you," Evan lifted his head and looked straight into Christian's eyes. "I'm living like you right now, without her. If she leaves me when I ask her to marry me, or at the altar, or tomorrow, I could still say I tried. I could still say I loved her, that I kissed her, I held her." Evan inhaled a deep breath, his chest swelling with the intensity of it. "Without her, I'll just rot into nothing.

Christian submitted to the roll of his eyes, the churn of his stomach, the break in his knees. He willingly fell out of consciousness, surrendering his heart to the blackness. She was gone. He was gone. Life on earth didn't matter anymore.

Elias could not have prepared himself for the moment that he walked into that cottage and laid his eyes on her. Her emerald green eyes--the way they gazed upon him like there were no surroundings or time or sounds to distract her, like he was all that existed.

She smiled at him, and he stopped breathing.

He just wanted to get through his uninteresting day, so he could cross over into the night, and find his way to the red headed light that brightened the black sky.

She couldn't stop thinking about Elias. His hands caressing her feet, his arms around her body, his fingers entangled in her hair--he was so warm. It wasn't only the temperature, it was some deep connection that ran down to her soul, his touch mollifying the core of her. And his voice--it was no wonder the magic ceased when he spoke. It was so deep, but so level--not even the most kindhearted and loving women deserved to hear such a sexy sound come out of a man's mouth.

The most important things, the experiences that leave marks on our souls for everyone to see, those marks that reflect our most intense emotions in a glass pane, we will never forget.

He was sort of beautiful. In his own dark, depressing way, but still. She was going to miss that stupid fucking beautiful face.

It takes two to tango, and if you dance too long, implosion is inevitable.

What is perfect, anyway? The absence of perfection and the existence of human nature in place of something we want to do or we don’t want to do, is an excuse, not an exoneration.

Emily woke to shadows and their voices. They looked different today, because the entire world hurt. The numbness had worn off sometime between sleep and awake, and she was seeing red. The shadows on the walls were not shadows at all, but red blobs consisting of teeth and claws. Her house reeked of pain.The whole world was fucking bleeding.

Life wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t supposed to be. Eternal beauty could not exist if it were not for the face of a fatal flaw.