… home is where your heart is set in stone, it’s where you go when you’re alone, it’s where you go to rest your bones.
All I can think of is the emaciated bodies of the children on our kitchen table as my mother prescribes what the parents can’t give. More food. Now that we’re rich, she’ll send some home with them. But often in the old days, there was nothing to give and the child was past saving, anyway. And here in the Capital they’re vomiting for the pleasure of filling their bellies again and and again. Not from illness of body or mind, not from spoiled food. It’s what everyone does at a party. Expected. Part of the fun.
Time won’t wait; we’re gonna leave. Somewhere we’ll find infinity.
“I’m always finding humans at their best and worst. I see their ugly and their beauty and I wonder how the same can be both.”
“That’s the thing about pain. It demands to be felt.”
She was beautiful, for a human-long hair nearly the precise color of black ink, charcoaled eyes. […] He only had to narrow his eyes to know that it was real-real and precious.