“Be you. All of you. Without consequence. Without judgment.”

My eyes shut as the fire in my lungs reaches my throat.

If there ever was a time not to be fragile, this is it.

Even the darkest night will end and the sun will rise.

Darkness watches me from every angle. My only friend. From its own place within the silence, it speaks to me in a strange way.

I never claimed to be a predator, but right now she’s certainly the prey.

He was unhinged. Shameless. Everything wrong and everything right. And he held the key to my cage in his palm.

I may be unhinged, but I’m constantly working to channel my urges. It never stops, the self-restraint, the need for more.

It’s just a question. A question whose answer no longer has the power to hurt me.

Maybe I’ve dragged myself through the mud since then, but even mud hardens beneath your shoes. I must be standing on a mountain of it by now. And no one can touch me from way the hell up here.

Heartache is my constant companion, and we’re perfect for one another. Two co-dependent peas in a pod. My past and my future.

Gifts are meant to be wrapped. Honestly, it’s basic etiquette.

Hatred’s the fuel that keeps me alive.

I quickly learned I needed someone who specifically enjoyed, or at the very least could take it, when I hit that point of blinding release. Every time, I lost all sense of the control I work so hard at maintaining.

We have no use for people who don’t want to be here.

Doesn’t he know I want everything? And in return, I’ll give him all of me.

Crawl inside this body, find me where I am most ruined— love me there.

All knowledge that is not the real product of observation, or of consequences deduced from observation, is entirely groundless and illusory.

There is no act, however trivial, but has its train of consequences.

Customs form us all, our thoughts, our morals, our most fixed beliefs; are consequences of our place of birth.

On the breast of that huge Mississippi of falsehood called History, a foam-bell more or less is no consequence.

Success is a consequence and must not be a goal.

Every fairy child may keep Two strong ponies and ten sheep; All have houses, each his own, Built of brick or granite stone; They live on cherries, they run wild I’d love to be a Fairy’s child.

Sanity — that is the great virtue of the ancient literature; the want of that is the great defect of the modern, in spite of its variety and power.

Be convinced that to be happy means to be free and that to be free means to be brave. Therefore do not take lightly the perils of war.