Love Weaves Itself From Hundreds Of Threads.

Me: You Know What Sucks About Love? O.w.g.: What? Me: That It's So Tied To The Truth.

I Suspected That What Happens In Hotel Rooms Rarely Lasts Outside Of Them. I Suspected That When Something Was A Beginning And An Ending At The Same Time, That Meant It Could Only Exist In The Present.

The World Is Quieter Now. It Is Never Quiet, But It Can Get Quieter. What Strange Creatures We Are, To Find Silence Peaceful, When Permanent Silence Is The Thing We Most Dread. Nighttime Is Not That. Nighttime Still Rustles, Still Creaks And Whispers And Trembles In Its Throat. It Is Not Darkness We Fear, But Our Own Helplessness Within It. How Merciful To Have Been Granted The Other Senses.

He Doesn’t Just Look Upset—he Looks Newly Blind. There Is Such Loss In His Eyes, And It Permeates Every Other Part Of His Body.

That's What The Voices In Your Head Are For, To Get You Through The Silent Parts.