I was angry with my friend:I told my wrath, my wrath did end.I was angry with my foe:I told it not, my wrath did grow.

Sorry,” I said. There was little healing power in the word, but maybe the Inspectre wasn’t looking to heal. Maybe he didn’t want someone to fix it. It had been broken too long for me...

There was something peculiarly gratifying about shouting in a blind rage until your words ran out. Of course, the aftermath was less pleasant. Once you’d told everyone you hated them and not to come after...

If you spend your time talking to God about everything, you’ll be less likely to vent your feelings to everyone.

What the fuck does he think he’s doing anyway? And when has running around in a figure eight ever helped anyone?

I wanted to talk to someone. But who? It’s moments like this, when you need someone the most, that your world seems smallest.