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She just knew that even when you had nothing, you still had love.

Joe Hill

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Joe Hill
Knew
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I didn't know the inner me was hungry, I said to Art. That's because it already starved to death.
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Her sanity was a fragile thing, a butterfly cupped in her hands, that she carried with her everywhere, afraid of what would happen if she let it go-or got careless and crushed it.
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The language of sin was universal, the original Esperanto.
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There's only room for one hero in this story-and everyone knows the devil doesn't get to be the good guy.
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When you think about it, most of the good ideas came along to make sin a whole lot easier.
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But God fears women even more that He fears the devil- and is right to. She, with her power to bring life into the world, was truly made in the image of the Creator, not man.
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You know someone for a while and then one day a hole opens underneath them, and they fall out of your world.
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You loved me as hard as you knew how. I'd give anything to go back and love you better.
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Terror is the desire to save your own ass, but horror is rooted in sympathy.
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The mad sometimes drilled holes in their own heads to let the demons out. To relieve the pressure of thoughts they could no longer bear. Jude understood the impulse. Each beat of his heart was a fresh and staggering blow felt in the nerves behind his eyes and in his temples. Punishing evidence of life.
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Were talking about an attitude. Delayed gratification is there, planning, be able to give up something now to get something later.
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Aren't you going to tell me I'm not so bad? she asked. Mmm-no. I was thinking how every man loves a hot girl with a history of making mistakes. Because it's always possible she'll make one with you.
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Horror was rooted in sympathy . . . in understanding what it would be like to suffer the worst.
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The blood of a redheaded woman is three degrees cooler than the blood of a normal woman. This has been established by medical studies.
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I remind myself that no one day of writing matters all that much. A story is built somewhat like a stalactite - one little drip of mud and grit at a time.
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... people made the imaginary real all the time: taking the music they heard in their head and recording it, seeing a house in their imagination and building it. Fantasy was always only a reality waiting to be switched on.
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Music [is] the third rail of life. You grabbed it to shock yourself out of the dull drag of hours. To feel something. To burn with all the emotions you didn't get to experience in the ordinary run of school, TV, and loading the dishwasher after dinner.
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Was there any human urge more pitiful-or more intense- than wanting another chance at something?
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I want you to remember what was good in me, not what was most awful. The people you love should be allowed to keep their worst to themselves.
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I hope if there is another world, we will not be judged too harshly for the things we did wrong here—that we will at least be forgiven for the mistakes we made out of love.
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