Allie Burke

She was addicted to literature like some people were addicted to heroin.

Writing is the voices inside our heads, our minds, the creativity that exists for us to, from nothing, create alternate worlds, manipulate a personality or to introduce a new kind of love, a new kind of hate or pain or happiness or wonder or... anything we want. Through words, we can do, we can be anything we want.

What did she care what became of this world when her loved ones were dead and gone?

Life wasn__ perfect, but it wasn__ supposed to be. Eternal beauty could not exist if it were not for the face of a fatal flaw.

Emily woke to shadows and their voices. They looked different today, because the entire world hurt. The numbness had worn off sometime between sleep and awake, and she was seeing red. The shadows on the walls were not shadows at all, but red blobs consisting of teeth and claws. Her house reeked of pain.The whole world was fucking bleeding.

I'm not going anywhere.

What is perfect, anyway? The absence of perfection and the existence of human nature in place of something we want to do or we don__ want to do, is an excuse, not an exoneration.

It takes two to tango, and if you dance too long, implosion is inevitable.

He was sort of beautiful. In his own dark, depressing way, but still. She was going to miss that stupid fucking beautiful face.