The jukebox played some hillbilly tune; steel guitar and emotion-choked moaning…
No single thing abides; and all things are fucked up.
The problem with introspection is that it has no end.
When I was a child, I thought as a child. But now I have put away childish things.
Exactly what the powers of hell feed on: the best instincts in man.
Truth, she thought. As terrible as death. But harder to find.
They ought to make it a binding clause that if you find God you get to keep Him.