No matter what happened, he was Dex and I was Perry and that combination only led to trouble.

I feel like I’m a disappointment to mankind,” he remarked woefully as he placed the shirt through my arms and began to pull it down over my breasts. “Someone this gorgeous should be on display in a museum.

Sometimes hope is like wearing someone else’s coat. You know it can shield and protect you, just as it did them, but it still doesn’t feel right. You’re just not used to it.

Fear gives people their humanity. Fear of loss.

A young body, a young heart, and endless courage. That last part is the most important. Don’t let anyone tell you any differently. Why do you think we used to send so many kids your age off to war?

You can learn a lot about a person through their dreams. It’s your subconscious, split open and bare for all to see.

When you wake up from a nightmare, the reality comforts you. When you wake up from the best dream ever, reality is a burden, a slap-in-the-face reminder that you could feel this, you could have this, but you don’t and you won’t.

This bullet can go straight through the couch."He was right. Fuck Ikea for making such flimsy furniture.

Better to be a catalyst for change than a martyr for lies.

...being beautiful has nothing to do with sex. You have to be beautiful in here, too.” he says, pressing his fist against his heart and then his head.

We learn so that we may succeed, and that goes for anything in life, including the arts. It’s a falsity that the moment we earn money or wish to earn money for our creations that it ceases to become art.

...seeing ghosts and demons just lends itself to listening to White Zombie and Slayer and Fantomas on repeat. One Direction and Selena Gomez are for the girls who don’t see dead people every fucking day.

The human heart isn't meant to be caged by someone who doesn't feed it.

I’m scared of him. I’m disgusted by the vile monster he becomes, this beast he lets out. But I still love him. I’d still do anything for him. I can’t just turn off my heart. I want to, I do, but I can’t. I love him with everything I have and I hate myself for it. Because it’s wrong to love him, I know. It’s so wrong.

Rubbing a clit to competin and sawing off someone's foot seemed to use all the same muscles.

If you want to be all like smart and adult about this shit then do the right thing. But if you want to do something fun and take a chance, then screw what anyone else thinks. Rock and roll, man!

Within your light, I lose the madness.

Try and make it right, and if you can't, that's on them, not you. Forgiveness shouldn't be stockpiled by anyone. It should be given freely.

You shine brighter than the sun""But even the sun goes away every night""But it is hte sun's absence that makes us feel its power. We know the loss, the beauty and the life that the moon can't replace. That is why we hang on to each day we are given.

There is no code among men because there are no men anymore. Only monsters who sit behind their desks and give orders.

To the thing that hurts you most. To the paranormal and to never being normal.

Not that it was a crazy complicated skill, but operating an espresso machine during high traffic could be added to my repertoire along with card tricks and how to fire a Colt .45.(Quote taken from ARC, subject to change)

Love isn't a choice. I can't control how I feel about him any more than I can control the sun in the sky. But what I can do is control what I do with those feelings.

My mother is quite the character. You'd hate her. Sometimes I think I hate her too, but mainly I feel sorry for her. Which is kind of worse.

I'm great at lying to myself.

Look, I don't know who has been telling you over the years that you aren't worthy of love and happiness, but they're idiots. We all deserve it. And if people get hurt along the way, that's life. We've all been hurt. Doesn't that make love more crucial to our lives?

You’re saying we can write our own destiny,” I said, feeling too jaded and stubborn in the moment to believe it. “I am saying,” he said carefully, “that this is not the end of the story. Not the way I am writing it.

The saying goes, if you love something, let it go. I always though it was better to just shoot the damn thing so it'd never go anywhere.

We were vicious and violent but elegant and discreet. There was a dance to all of this, one that kept all things flowing in the right direction, a circle that ensured the smartest and brightest would stay on top, not the man with the most guns and the smallest dick.

I slowly, deliberately began to work the blade into his throat. He squirmed and kicked and fought agains tme, but in his current state, I was stronger. His will to live was pathetic, just like he was. Eventually he stopped kicking. I kept cutting. When I was finally done, I was covered in sweat and only a few drops of blood on my shoes and pants. They'd come out in a good wash.I put his head into the garbage and pulled the bag out, making a knot at the end. I hoped it wouldn't leak through. Then I looked around the office. It was a mess before I came in, piles of paper and empty beer bottles scattered around. The addition of his blood and a headless corpse was barely noticeable.

And what is I was only supposed to burn for a certain amount of time?" I whispered. "What if I was only meant to shine for a while?""Then you truly don't know what stars are meant to do."I looked at him in wonder."They are meant to give us hope in the face of infinity".

I’m pretty sure there are some things in the dark that we’re not meant to see.

I have to live with my mistakes, but I don’t have to regret them. I regret my actions but I can’t regret the consequences. We all make our own paths in life. Everyone we meet, everything we do, it changes us. It makes us who we are. And, if we’re lucky, we’re given the chance to make things right again.

Hell isn’t fire and brimstone. It’s New York City.

People say things are going to be Hell without even the slightest notion of what Hell is.

They say you’re only as old as you feel but try telling that to a ninety-year-old on their deathbed, just wishing he could do all the bloody things he wants to do.

We barely made it inside her room before I pressed her up against the closed door and kissed her until she couldn't breathe, until I couldn't breathe-but who needed air when you had a silken tongue and warm lips and a body that begged to be licked, pinched, stroked.

At the mention of her name, my heart started beating faster. Dawn. Rusty. My muse.

But for many writers, and to borrow a popular cliché, it’s like getting blood from a stone. You have the want and the desire, but with experience and time, your self-doubt becomes louder and your inner critic comes out to play. It silences your creativity. You feel you aren’t allowed to make mistakes.

To rise from the ashes only to have them rain on you from above.

We are forever surrounded by ash. But we are fire. And fire rises.

Writing is hard…It gets harder when it becomes your career, your job, because it’s no longer a hobby, it’s no longer a manuscript hidden in your desk drawer. It becomes a platform from which the world can judge you. Your soul becomes target practice, and the critics hold the arrows.

I looked like a hipster who broke his arm at a Vampire Weekend concert or some shit like that.

It doesn’t really matter in the end. Most people I talk to don’t take writing seriously. If I tell them I’m an aspiring author, they get that “yeah right” look on their face, which is usually followed by “good luck with that.

That’s what all art is for. Your creations can become anything to anyone. I’ve realized there’s nothing wrong with letting people escape for a few hours. Plus you should hear about all the sex lives I’m saving.

I’ve seen him before you know. In real life.” “What? When?” I catch a twinge of hurt in her voice for not filling her in on it earlier. “When I was at Sephora,” I tell her. “So he’s a metrosexual ghost as well?” Dex asks.

I never realized how much I loved life until I knew it was being taken away.

Sometimes… we have a war in our hearts. We’re torn in two directions. The way we feel and the way we should feel. They rarely align. The battle goes on.

Heartache is so physically real that it needs to be recognized as a sickness, an ailment, a cancer of love. A broken heart is a sad, angry, powerful thing that shakes you by the collar and demands your respect, and it's pummeling me into the mattress, shattering me to pieces. It's as real as the actual heart in my chest. In some ways, it's more real because it flows throughout your whole body, wrapping around your bones and your organs and your blood. It's in everything you do, every breath you take.

His mouth was a little too wide and snaked from corner to corner. His nose had been broken a few times, and when you looked at him straight on like I was doing as I stared at him across the circle bar, you could really tell. But his eyes were beautiful, cunning and otherworldly. His hair was a controlled mess; wispy dark strands that swooped across his forehead with long sideburns. He had high cheekbones, a strong jawline. When you combined all the parts, they equaled so much more than the sum. He was exotically, dangerously beautiful. He'd been mine once. He'd broken my heart once. And he was here to kill me. He only needed to do that once, too.

God didn't create monsters. Monsters created themselves.