They were good eyes. Kind eyes. Weary, but well-meaning.

I wasn't a believer' I was raised that way, but when [she] died I decided that was all the proof I needed that god didn't exist or if he did he didn't care abo…

You may think you ashamed, but you not. Deep down in your heart. You know you done it all You don't know what I feel

I'm nobody's child You're mine now. Not my child, but mine, to miss you when you go, to look out for you, to hope you'll be careful

Never had her eyes been so enormous, so dark, so deep: her whole being was transfigured by some subtle emanation.

Depression presents itself as a realism regarding the rottenness of the world in general and the rottenness of your life in particular.

There's something about blonds that triggers a lightheartedness. People can't take you seriously. Brunettes are more mysterious.