Sylvia's dark eyes widened. "You are more than you appear to be" "Yes. I am a monster of Darkness, a beast," he agreed with her. Her lips tilted up. "Can a beast weep in sorrow? Does darkness have the capacity to feel loneliness? I think not.
What humans want most of all, is to be right. Even if we're being right about our own doom. If we believe there are monsters around the next corner ready to tear us apart, we would literally prefer to be right about the monsters, than to be shown to be wrong in the eyes of others and made to look foolish.
Keeping vigil over her are two monsters of very different breeds but monster just the same. Death on her left. Devil on her right.
There is no shame in loving. If your septons say there is, your seven gods must be demons. In the isles we know better. Our gods gave us legs to run with, noses to smell with, hands to touch and feel. What mad cruel god would give a man eyes and tell him he must forever keep them shut, and never look at all the beauty in the world? Only a monster god, a demon of the darkness.
When you traffic in monsters, that's the risk you run, that you'll find one too monstrous to stomach.
Not everyone can be bribed with meat, Oberon." "They Can't? Oh! you mean they're vegetarian." "No, they eat meat. It just doesn't sway their decision making process." "Well that... that's just wrong, Atticus!Are they Monsters? It's like they have no moral center!
Here there be monster." Bob whispered, half hysterically. "Run! Run already!
I did not do it. Yet now I wish I had.’ He turned to face the hall, that sea of pale faces. ‘I wish I had enough poison for you all. You make me sorry that I am not the monster you would have me be, yet there it is. I am innocent, but I will get no justice here.
That's because we keep weapons int the attic, silly boy. Do you think this is the first time monsters have attacked our family?" "Weapons," Frank grumbled. "Right. I've never handled weapons before." Grandmother's nostrils flared. "Was that sarcasm, Fai Zhang?" "Yes, Grandmother." "Good. There may be hope for you yet.
The torment of love can transform people into wretched monsters
Here is The Boy with the Thorn in His Side, dying in your world. A man made monster with every human emotion, overdosed on worthlessness in a world that could never wrap it’s head around him (so don’t even try). When it’s all over just remember every single word you ever said was always just a bullet to his head. Bury him underground between friends and love - the only things that are gonna make it to the end with him. Look for his body buried beneath where the yellow weeds are growing and know he’s still living in his nightmares.
This story never really had a point. It’s just a lull - a skip in the record. We are addresses in ghost towns. We are old wishes that never came true. We are hand grenades (and every word you say pulls the pin). We are all gods, we are all monsters.
Once upon a time, a girl lived in a sandcastle, making monsters to send through a hole in the sky.
He had read books, newspapers and magazines. He knew that if you ran away you sometimes met bad people who did bad things to you; but he had also read fairy tales, so he knew that there were kind people out there, side by side with the monsters.
I'm a monster, you know. I'm one of the dangerous ones. No you aren't, he promised. Your one of us.
I felt like a monster reincarnation of Horatio Alger: A man on the move, and just sick enough to be totally confident.
I was becoming the cold, emotionally crippled monster I always wanted to be, and I wasn’t so sure I liked it. But it was too late. The metamorphosis was already well under way.
It doesn't make you a monster to want, she said, her voice very gentle. It's what you do with it that matters.
He whipped the chair around and actually split one of the things in half with the impact, spilling the spray of blood that was reflective, like mercury. John bellowed, "Anyone else want to donate blood to chair-ity?" He ducked into the the door and bashed one monster right in the wig, screaming, "There's some dessert! With a chair-y on top!
It's not a good feeling--knowing that you profoundly deserve the title of monster. It's better to be kind than to feel guilty.
Monsters don't die. They just dissipate into smoke and dust, which saves heroes a lot of trouble cleaning up after a fight.
It's not John who wants to cut his mother into tiny pieces, it's Mr. Monster. See? I feel better already.
It is better not to try people, not to force them to desperation. Make them prosper; out of superfluidity, they will be generous. Full bellies breed gentle manners. The pinch of famine makes monsters.
The way you slam your body into mine reminds me I’m alive, but monsters are always hungry, darling.
I wish we had a sign that this flaming dragon is part of an attack or something. Those dung heaps might think it’s just one of their own monsters enjoying the sunrise.
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