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Sometimes I worry that there’s not enough room in my brain for both my dreams and reality that I’m a hard drive with limited gigabytes and one day I won’t be able to maintain the firewall between them. I wonder if that’s what senility is.

Karen Marie Moning

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Karen Marie Moning
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: November 1
Author
Novelist
Science Fiction Writer
Writer
Cincinnati
Ohio
Able
Dreams
Enough
Room
Hard
Rooms
Sometimes
Worry
Firewall
Wonder
Senility
Brain
Maintain
Reality
Limited
Dream
Drive

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I felt the electricity of his body behind me as he reached around me and took the card from my hand. He didn't move away, and I battled the urge to lean back into him, seeking the comfort of his strength. Would he wrap his arms around me? Make me feel safe, if only for a moment, and if only a delusion?
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And after I act as your intermediary and he takes you back to Faery, then what? Then all will be made right, and I'll be invincible again. She rolled her eyes. I meant, what happens to me? While you may be the most important thing to your egotistical little self in your narcissistic little world, guess what— so am I in mine.
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We're taking back the night
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There are a few absolute no-brainer rules in my world. Real close to the top of this list is: if an Unseelie prince runs from it, I'm going to run from it, too. [said Dani]
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Is anyone who's supposed to be dead actually dead?
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Friends don’t build cages for each other.
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Oh ye of little faith. Not for IYD... But you didn't even try.
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Sometimes the small pleasures in life are the sweetest.
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When he comes, he makes a noise deep in his throat that is so raw and animal and sexual that I think if he merely looked at me and made that noise, I might explode in an orgasm.
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Your race devotes itself to justifying its errors, not correcting them
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He knows what I'm thinking. Always. We're connected. The atoms between us ferry messages back and forth.
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Tuatha De do not walk the human realm alone. Actually, they don't walk alone much anywhere. Only the occasional rogue Fae will do so. Like yourself? Yes Most of my kind have no fondness for solitude. Those who walk alone are not to be trusted. Really, she said dryly. Except for me, he amended, with a faint, insouciant grin.
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It's a strange new world out there and the rules have changed: It's every princess for herself.
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And then what? Said, 'Oh, I'm so sorry, Ms. Lane, I didn't mean to wrinkle your lovely blouse. May I press that for you?' Or perhaps you gouged it with one of your pretty pink nails? I was really beginning to wonder what his hang-up with pink was, but I didn't resent the sarcasm in his voice.
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Time heals. No, it doesn't. At best, time is the great leveler, sweeping us all into coffins. We find ways to distract ourselves from the pain. Time is neither scalpel nor bandage. It is indifferent. Scar tissue is not a good thing. It is merely the wound's other face.
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Liminal sucks. You can't grasp it with your hands and shape it. You can't make midnight come faster, or grow up sooner, or avoid the in-betweens. You can only hang in there, and get through them.
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The White Mansion isn't boring, lass. Never boring. It's the grand demesne the Unseelie King built for his concubine. It's a living, breathing love story, testament to the brightest passion that ever burned between our races. You can follow the scenes through if you've time enough and are willing to risk getting lost for a few centuries.
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Last night you said you wanted to know what to expect so you could better select your attire. I told you we were going to visit a vampire in a Goth-den tonight. Why, then, Ms. Lane, do you look like a perky rainbow?
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Oh, please, I rolled my eyes, You're a leftie, Barrons. Touche, Ms. Lane, he murmured.
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Never underestimate a well-dressed bimbo.
Karen Marie Moning