At least no one's trying to kill anyone. Give them about fifteen minutes
Nobody the dead man & Nobody the living Nobody is giving in & Nobody is giving Nobody hears me but just Nobody cares Nobody fears me but Nobody just stares Nobody belongs to me & Nobody remains No Nobody knows nothing All that remains are remains
Funny thing is, until I met you all I wanted to do was to get as far away from here as I could. Kind of ironic, isn't it? Can't get much farther away than where I"m going, and now I'd give anything to stay.
Because when every day is the End of Days, after a while they feel pretty much like every other day, even though you know that's crazy. And nothing is the same.
You couldn't unburn the books. You could only buy new ones.
She had the power to destroy. I had only seen the power to love. When you discovered both, who could figure out what to do with that?
I could remember the details as if it had happened yesterday, even though it was hard to believe some of it had happened at all. Funerals were tricky like that. And life, I guess. The important parts you blocked out altogether, but the random, slanted moments haunted you, replaying over and over in your mind.
Because life goes on, L. The birds do their thing, and the bees do theirs. Seeds get scattered, and everything grows back.
When she slept, she looked peaceful, beautiful. Not Lena's kind of beautiful, something different. She looked content - like a sunny day, a cold glass of milk, an unopened book before you cracked the binding.
So he's like a human compass? As far as superpowers go, that's pretty lame. You're like the Caster equivalent of Aquaman.
Just as I lay back, she sat up. I sat up, and she flopped back down. Awkward. That was my every move when it came to her. Now we were both lying down, staring up at the blue sky.
The toes of our ratty black sneakers touched.
The Sisters were Southern Baptist, and they went to church on Saturdays and Sundays, and most other days, too.
Are you kidding? I'm supposed to put my books in this filthy tin coffin?
Books?" Ridley looked disgusted. "Carry?
the whole way down, I was only thinking one thing . . . L E N A
Fate is a wheel that turns without our hand
I grabbed Aunt Prue's tiny hand, her fingers as small as bare twigs in winter. I closed my eyes and took her other hand, twisting my strong fingers together with her frail ones. I rested my forehead against our hands and closed my eyes. I imagined lifting my head up and seeing her smiling, the tape and tubes gone. I wondered if wishing was the same thing as praying. If hoping for something badly enough could make it happen.
I couldn't sit by and watch them try to take her down. Not her.
Everyone under the age of sixty called it the War Between the States, while everyone over sixty called it the War of Northern Aggression, as if somehow the North had baited the South into war over a bad bale of cotton.Read
Exactly. They're stupid. Who cares?" "I care. They bother me. And that's why I'm stupid. That makes me exponentially more stupid than stupid. I'm stupid to the power of stupid." She waved her hand. The moon blew away. "That's the stupidest thing I've ever heard." I looked at her out of the corner of my eye.
So why did I think about her every second? Why was I so much happier the minute I saw her? I felt like maybe I knew the answer, but how could I be sure? I didn't know, and I didn't have any way to find out. Guys don't talk about stuff like that. We just lie under the pile of bricks.
Maybe Ridley was like chicken pox; you could only catch it once.
Because saving the people you love isn't stupid. It isn't even a choice
Knowing you don't have much time left changes things. You get kind of philosophical. And you figure things out-more like, they figure themselves out-and everything gets real clear.
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