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Let me tell you a little bit about demons. They love pain and other people’s misery. They lie when it suits them and don’t see anything wrong with it. They corrupt and kill and destroy, all without conscience. You just don’t have the capacity for something as honorable as loving another person.
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When you love someone, sometimes it means that they strip you down, peel you open, and you have to let them and not worry about how much it's going to hurt.
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When you name something, you take away some of it's power. It becomes known.
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On the opposite page, there was a poem. It described how beauty and truth mattered more than anything else. They were the same thing. But it didn't matter how pretty you painted the world.
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That was the thing about being bereaved. People were overcome with sympathy. They did things for you without even considering whether or not it was the right thing to do.
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The things I had were mine and some of them were broken, but they were real. They were so very far from nothing.
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We sat on the picnic bench, not talking, not looking at each other, but being quiet and okay. The rain was almost gone, nothing but a thin chilly fog. For now, I just wanted to sit on the picnic bench with him and not be anything but fine and uncomplicated.
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People do that sometimes. Change.
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The world is full of unused corners.
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All great acts are ruled by intention. What you mean is what you get.
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I didn't know how to respond to that. There was something disturbing about being responsible for partially decayed girls going swimming.
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Once, my mother told a whole host of angels that she’d rather die than go back to a man she didn’t love.
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Our lives were limitless and unknowable, not perfect, but ours.
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The simple truth is that you can understand a town. You can know and love and hate it. You can blame it, resent it, and nothing changes. In the end, you’re just another part of it.