“I don’t agree. The morning fog makes the graveyard beautiful, soft and sad as a voice humming a lullaby, but I don’t tell her what I think. She’d call me a weirdo.- Raven Smith”

“Sii la mia schiava d’amore,” I purr.Her expression is guarded. “What did you say?”An amused smile pulls at my lips. “I’ll never tell.” Somehow, I don’t think she’d agree to be my love slave anyway.”

“I think there is something beautiful in reveling in sadness. The proof is how beautiful sad songs can be. So I don’t think being sad is to be avoided. It’s apathy and boredom you want to avoid. But feeling anything is good, I think. Maybe that’s sadistic of me.”

“Don’t tell me you don’t wonder, don’t th—” “I fucking don’t!” He grabbed her upper arms, held her in place, the raw fury in his voice a wild thing. “I made my choice, and I chose you. Don’t you do this. Don’t you destroy us.”

“I eat fog soup (out of a can). You don’t think I make it fresh, do you? You don’t need a spoon or straw to enjoy it—you need a pipe to inhale it.”

“I think of what we might say. Him to me. Me to him. I ain’t no soft girl. I don’t know no soft words. Be with me, Jack. That’s what I’ll say. Burn with me. Shine with me.”