post-apocalyptic

Behind every great hatred is a love story. For I am a man who has known and tasted love. I say __ man_ because that is how I know myself. Look at me, and what do you see? Do I not take the form of a man? Do I not feel as you do, suffer as you do, love as you do, mourn as you do? What is the essence of a man, if not these things?

See? Nothing to it.""I see all right," Carly said, her tone full of awe. She gaped at him."What?""Um...""Jesus, Carly, what is it?" He spun around to make sure there wasn't something behind him that would justify her reaction and the look of impressed astonishment on her face."You... Maybe the current was a little faster than you thought."He followed the direction of her gaze and discovered he had lost his boxers. He snickered. She giggled. They both burst into laughter, and Justin flushed a little.

This is the legacy of a compassionate bunch. Our fate now rests on the whims of men.

There were two people_things at the cave entrance,_ I whispered, shuffling as close to him as possible, my eyes trained on where the strangers had stood only seconds ago. At my words, Patrick seemed to jolt awake.__ometimes the fire makes shadows when it__ dying,_ he said, sitting up, his arm brushing against my side. ____e slept here many times and it happens,_ he added.__o. They were real._ My thudding heart was like thunder in my ears. __hey were really tall and pale, and blond, really, really blond.___aybe, as you were falling asleep tonight, you were thinking about the shadows at your window, which caused you to dream about two blond men?_ His warm breath tickled my hair. __nd maybe, deep down, you have a thing for blonds. I__ a little offended, actually.

Take it slow. We want to know what__ ahead before what__ ahead knows we__e here.

And so ends his rush from his greatest act of rebellion. He understands that no matter where he runs or how high he flies, he will always have to come home.

... there are certain questions that must never be asked. Of anyone. Even oneself.

Her eyes flashed, hot and angry, like lightening cutting through a red sunset.

Your mother hollers that you__e going to miss the bus. She can see it coming down the street. You don__ stop and hug her and tell her you love her. You don__ thank her for being a good, kind, patient mother. Of course not -- you vault down down the stairs and make a run for the corner.Only if it__ the last time you__l ever see your mother, you sort of start to wish you__ stopped and did those things. Maybe even missed the bus.But the bus was barreling down our street so I ran.

I look at the sky and the dust that separates us from the stars that will be my home. I breathe in the night air, the rotten night air, and I miss, I miss, I miss.

I like living in my head because in there, everyone is kind and innocent. Once you start integrating yourself into the world, you realize that people are nasty, mean creatures. They're worse than zombies. People try to crush your soul and destroy your happiness, but zombies just want to have a little nibble of your brain.

Time is truly apathetic to the many to whom a little empathy would mean so much.~"Disarming (Reign of Blood #2)

...because of the foulness of her mother's emotional river, a current which ran swift, changing its path without warning...

Quote from __nexpected Tales from the Ends of the Earth_: __his is that old well known man, for who I understood that one morning he puts the pistol in his mouth and put the trigger. He is dead right here. But he would never die in that dream. And I will never stop ask myself why I woke up, and how exactly has finished __his is that old well known man, for who I understood that one morning he puts the pistol in his mouth and put the trigger. He is dead right here. But he would never die in that dream. And I will never stop ask myself why I woke up, and how exactly has finished the strange feast_.

I guess I was lucky I didn't drown, or smother in the thick, black, icy mud that the river left behind in its slow withdrawal back within its banks.I didn't feel lucky.When I regained consciousness, my head and ribs winning the battle with the rest of my body for sharp, almost unbearable pain, my first thought was Chrissy. Chrissy, pulled away from me by the merciless power of the water. Chrissy, lost somewhere, maybe injured, calling for me and I wasn't there for her. Chrissy, beautiful, wonderful Chrissy, quite probably lying in the mud, dead!My scream of anguish, of pain and loss, echoed through the empty Liverpool streets. There was no shame or embarrassment in that shout, that bellow of emotion. I had lost the woman I loved. Nothing I__ ever felt compared to the agony, the gut-wrenching loss of that moment.I cried. I sat there in the middle of a street I didn't recognise, not knowing how far the wave had carried me, and cried.

My dad had always said to not trust something unless it__ taken a tumble in the dirt. He__ meant it for people, and for things. Shiny and new didn__ exist for humankind any more.

It was one of those dreams from which she woke up depressed about her reality, filled with a longing that pulled at her insides, wishing the dream could have lasted forever, or at least much longer than it had.

If the world explore all my dark fantasy, will change for the better_.