“His eyes close, and he draws a long breath. When they open again, they’re colder than ever. “And that’s where you’d be disappointed, Lou.There is no good to be found in Death.”

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.

Like I’m a puzzle to be worked out and he’s got all damn day.

Maybe she’d try to understand that the dark images muddled my brain until it hurt, until I had no choice but to let them out.

All the hardest, coldest people you meet were once as soft as water. And that’s the tragedy of living.

There’s nothing more dishonest than words.

Do not judge my story by the chapter you walked in on.

I’m a bird trapped in a self-made cage.

Eva’s an enigma, and she’s my enigma. My secret. My lifeline.

He’s just as fucked up as the rest of us. Some of us just wear our creep on our sleeves.

The ’60s are my favorite decade – with the Cold War, the women’s movement. And then there’s the music, the fashion, the clothes, the hair.

You act like a cold cold man, frozen beyond repair, hardly uttering any word, action laced demeanor. Yet everything about you, from your ebony eyes, to your dazzling smile, makes me feel warm inside.

Paper and pen petrify me, for they pierce right through me, drawing deep blue blood, leaving me utterly cold.

The outer part of me so cold like an armor impenetrable. The words you throw at me ricochet and hit you in the heart.

Sweater, n.: garment worn by child when its mother is feeling chilly.

And she is going to dance, dance hungry, dance full, dance each cold astonishing moment, now when she is young and again when she is old.

I love how British guys dress for the cold.

It’s january, it’s cold and I search the sky for summer like I always do.