After I speak, my words merge with the wind, and if you’re listening, your ears act like sails and carry the conversation.
Dream dialogue: -Don’t cry. I, too, know what it’s like to be different. -But I’m not different. I’m normal, I’m average, and that’s why I’m crying.
I saw him do a No More Potatoes Dance, after he saw me stuff the last of the mashed potatoes in my pocket.
My shoes are scuffed and dirty from dancing. The grave of my enemy is where I go to find my inner Astaire.
And now, Elric had told three lies. The first concerned his cousin Yyrkoon. The second concerned the Black Sword. The third concerned Cymoril. And upon those three lies was Elric's destiny to be built, for it is only about things which concern us mos...
I used to be a bumper sticker kind of writer. Now I’m more developed, and my writing often takes up whole bumpers.
When the fog lifts on this economy, I think we’ll find a lot of people refusing to ever turn off their caution lights.
The only reason I didn’t feel like a complete fool was because the failure left me feeling incomplete.
Only the living can read. This means that when I write, my target market is people of the future. Greetings, people of the moon!
For dinner I had seared sneer with a glaze of distant gaze, and a side of mashed pride covered in grace.
She was very close to my heart. Even though we were separated by a distance of 400 years, I was lying on her grave.
Orafoura doesn’t know shit about what I said, said Orafoura, quoting The Mythical Mr. Boo to me about the shit that’s been said about him.
I invented underwear with only one leg hole, for people who like to concentrate on frozen orange juice while bungee jumping from a tampon string.
I suspect I’ll be suspicious for my whole life that Saturday night is sleeping with Sunday morning.
The written word has its limits and its challenges, for the primal sound in the whole world is that made by the human voice, and the likeness of this human voice must be rendered in dots and strokes...Yet I never forget that the voice, too, is import...
I remembered suddenly that Aspen had always been this way. He sacrificed sleep for me, he risked getting caught out after curfew for me, he scrounged together pennies for me. Aspen's generosity was harder to see because it wasn't as grand as Maxon's,...
Our own egos are so fragile we cannot bear to give our lives to the raising of children only to have them become ordinary people. There, I said it. The worst thing a 21st-century child of interesting parents could be: ordinary. Like us.
People like us, we think differently, don't we? We are different. We do all the things that others do. But when it comes down to it, we don't need anyone else. We're happy doing what we do and having obligation interferes with that. And sometimes I t...
I have a new name for pain. The Obliterator. Because when you’re in pain, nothing else can exist. Not thought. Not emotion. Only the drive to escape the pain. When it’s strong enough, the Obliterator strips us of everything that makes us who we a...
My language limitations here are real. My vocabulary is adequate for writing notes and keeping journals but absolutely useless for an active moral life. If I really knew this language, there would surely be in my head, as there is in Webster's or the...
I was ravenous for my child and took to gorging myself in the boneyard, hoping that she might possibly meet me halfway, or just beyond, one night, if only for an instant—step back into her own bare feet, onto the wet grass or fallen leaves or snowy...
