If he was winter, I was summer. If I was sunshine, he was night. A dark and stormy one.
Could words and symbols wield such power? Could mere scribblings on parchment unmake a person’s moral fiber? Weren’t we made of sterner stuff?
I’d rather live a hard life of fact than a sweet life of lies.
There are only shades of gray. Black and white are nothing more than lofty ideals in our minds, the standards by which we try to judge things, and map out our place in the world in relevance to them.
The wisest man is the silent one. Examine his actions. Judge him by them.
Mom raised us to believe that every lie puts something out there in the world that’s inevitably going to come back and bite you in the petunia.
A lamb in a city of wolves.
Barrons knows virtually everything about me. I wouldn’t be surprised if somewhere he has a little file that encompasses my entire life to date, with neatly mounted, acerbically captioned photos – see Mac sunbathe, see Mac paint her nails, see Mac almost die.
His face was in my neck and he was breathing hard. Was he grieving me? Already? Would he miss me? Had I, in some tiny way, come to matter to this enigmatic, hard, brilliant, obsessed man? I realised he’d come to matter to me. Good or evil, right or wrong, he mattered to me...
Kid, you might just annoy me into killing you.
Keeping vigil over her are two monsters of very different breeds but monster just the same. Death on her left. Devil on her right.
My philosophy is pretty simple – any day nobody’s trying to kill me is a good day in my book.
You believe in God? Dude. Only God could have created physics.
I love music because it’s so fecking brilliant. Music is math, and math is the structure of everything and pretty much perfect.
I don’t make sonic booms. I want a whip. I like the idea of walking around making sonic booms everywhere.
You are what you are. Deal with it or change.
Life equaled love plus passion squared. Loving and being passionate about what one did was what made life so precious.
I flash him number seventeen of my thirty-five Looks of Death.
All I need is a badly mangled, irate sentence stalking me.
He is my vulnerability.