It taught that there are three versions of things: the one I see in my mind, and the one that carries onto the paper, and then what it ultimately becomes.
It is the face of a girl who has seen the world, who realizes that it hates her, and who hates it in return.
Her mind is a bird that's trapped inside her skull, flapping and thrashing, never breaking free.
My worries always lead to dungeons; I can't imagine a worse thing than to be imprisoned for the rest of one's life, especially with so few years to enjoy what little there is.
And if I have to die trying, I will get out of here.
You've been captive for so long that you don't even realize you want freedom anymore.
She would do anything, anything to belong to his son after a lifetime of belonging to no one at all.
I watch the ashes swim around like dandelion puffs, making swirls where bodies and walls once stood.
You have a way of looking at things. You make it seem as though everything's going to be okay. I can't imagine a more dangerous thing to have than hope like yours.
There is a dark place calling to me, but I will not go just yet. I know I can't return from it.
I stare at her collarbone that's framed with lace, the hollow of her throat, her shoulders that rise with each rise with the weight of her next breath. We're fragile things. Our bones show through our skin. What would any god want with us?
I should not have loved my daughter as I did. Not in this world in which nothing lives for long. You children are flies. You are roses. You multiply and die.
Vaughn is talking about the heat, and his voice is so excited that it breaks into whispers at times. He loves his madness the way a bird loves the sky.
But instead of tears, when I press my face against the pillow, a horrible, primal scream comes out of me. It's unlike anything I thought myself capable of. Rage, unlike anything I've ever known.
In another time, in another place, I wonder who they might have been.
The trick was looking past the illusion, because the exit was never as far away as it seemed.
What have you done? What have you given up?' So many things, Cecily. More than you know.
Perhaps... you love too fiercely.
The thing about hope is that it doesn't go away even when it serves no purpose.
I like the idea of something greater than us. We destroy things with our curiosity. We shatter with our best intentions. We are no closer to perfection than we were one hundred years ago, or five hundred.
I don't know if it was love or an illusion. I don't know if there's ever a way to be certain.
She's been conned, ruined, left for dead, and she's not going to forgive any of it. She will soldier on, if only out of spite.
There's nothing here to say good-bye to. There's no dancing girl. No mischievous smile. She's gone, off with her sisters, broken free, escaped. And if she were here now, she would say, "Go.
I wonder if she has figured out that I'll never love Linden, especially not in the way she does, and that he'll never love anyone the way he loves her. I wonder if she realizes, despite all her efforts to train me, that I can never take her place.
I used to have only one name; it used to mean something.
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