It’s like you got to have everybody’s heart, and if they don’t give it, you rip it out and watch it bleed.

What you’re asking me to do is monstrous.” “So? Ain’t we both monsters?

Beyond the window, snow fell like frozen drops of poison.

I’m a cat burglar.

I miss my fox-headed brother. Keeper.

The river runs through the heart of the city, and braiding around and over and under the river, the city’s rail system is a welter of tarnished silver ribbons.

What makes a story a story is that something changes. Internal, external, small or large, trivial or of earth-shattering importance. Doesn’t matter.

I gave up on cussing – I’d run out of words filthy enough – and just started praying.

Consider the stars. Among them are no passions, no wars. They know neither love nor hatred. Did man but emulate the stars, would not his soul become clear and radiant as they are? But man’s spirit draws him like a moth to the ephemera of this world, and in their heat he is consumed entire.

It is a rose planted in your heart, and as it’s thorns tear you, so does it thrive and flower.