Like all bitter men, Flint knew less than half the story and was more interested in unloading his own peppery feelings than in learning the truth.

I write things down because my thoughts get too heavy in my head and it hurts my neck.

I'm sorry, I didn't mean--""To speak of it?" asked the K'mir. Diane nodded. "You have to, just to bleed off the poison from the memory.

I wanted to talk to someone. But who? It’s moments like this, when you need someone the most, that your world seems smallest.

Sorry," I said. There was little healing power in the word, but maybe the Inspectre wasn't looking to heal. Maybe he didn't want someone to fix it. It had been broken too long for me to think anything I said would actually help. It was like trying to put a Band-Aid on a shark bite. Sometimes people just needed to vent and get it out of their system.

There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out. Of course, the aftermath was less pleasant. Once you'd told everyone you hated them and not to come after you, where exactly did you go?

I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.

An open flask of industrial liquid gas that is venting into the indoor environment should be thought of as the same as a smoldering fire, as they both create a dangerous oxygen deficient environment for the human.

Industrial liquid gas containers were left open and venting gas into the indoor environment in high altitude astronomy. On reflection, I realized that I routinely observed mental and physical effects that match those of a low oxygen environment in staff that I supervised.

What the fuck does he think he's doing anyway? And when has running around in a figure eight ever helped anyone?