You Never Really Hate Anyone As Much

Demons Feed On Death And Pain Madness," Valentine Said. "when I Kill, It Is Because I Must. You Grew Up In A Falsely Beautiful Paradise Surrounded By Fragile Glass Walls, My Daughter. Your Mother Created The World She Wanted To Live In And She Brought You Up In It, But She Never Told You It Was An Illusion. And All The Time The Demons Waited With Their Weapons Of Blood And Terror To Smash The Glass And Pull You Free Of The Lie.

If I Was Harsh With You, It Was Because I Cannot Bear To See You Treat Yourself As If You Are Worth Nothing. Whatever Part You Might Act To The Contrary, I See You As You Really Are, My Blood Brother. Not Just Better Than You Pretend To Be, But Better Than Most People Could Hope To Be.

It Sucked To Be Old Enough To Want To Know What Was Going On, But So Young You Were Always Dismissed.

But You Hate Poetry! Yes, But You Make Me Want To Write It.

By The Angel, Bridget’s Depressing,” Said Henry, Setting Down His Newspaper Directly On His Plate And Causing The Edge To Soak Through With Egg Yolk. Charlotte Opened Her Mouth As If To Object, And Closed It Again. “it’s All Heartbreak, Death And Unrequited Love.” “well, That Is What Most Songs Are About,” Said Will. “requited Love Is Nice, But It Doesn’t Make Much Of A Ballad.