Barbara Kingsolver

There’s no more blood here to give, just war wounds. Madness. A world of pain, looking to be killed.

I was and always will be an idiot.

Then she was gone. And I was a mess. She knows my name. That’s what I was thinking. Not, that was weird, what a righteously fucked-up thing to say, that I’m going to end up in prison. What can I say. Love. It’s an unexcusable train wreck.

But I was polite enough not to say: Get back to me after you’ve done time with your racking bones in your sweat-swamped sheets, crying for the lights to go out on your whole damn being.

God don’t I know it. That moment where nicotine has to stand in for all other things you’re dying for.

Damn April to hell, I could be done with that one. November also.

Live long enough, and all things you ever loved can turn around to scorch you blind. The wonder is that you could start life with nothing, end with nothing, and lose so much in between.

It’s hard to explain how you can miss a place and want it with all your heart, and be utterly sure it will obliterate you the instant you touch down.

I needed to find the place that would make me hate it here and not come back.

People love to believe in danger, as long as it’s you in harm’s way, and them saying bless your heart.