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The trouble with morning is that it comes well before noon.

Libba Bray

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Libba Bray
Age: 60
Born: 1964
Born: March 11
Novelist
Writer
Texas
United States
Morning
Comes
Wells
Well
Noon
Trouble

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Power changes everything till it is difficult to say who are the heroes and who the villains.
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Do you think they missed him terribly when he fell? Did God cry over his lost angel, I wonder?
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War. Gorgon spits the word. That is what they call it to give the illusion of honor and law. It is chaos. Madness and blood and the hunger to win. It has always been thus and shall always be so.
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There are no safe choices. Only other choices.
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No, I call. Come back. I'm here, he says. But I can't see. It's too bright. You can't hold back the light, Gemma. I'm here. Trust me.
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Prepared to fly, even if she has to loose her legs to do it
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I wouldn’t expect you to get it, Daisy. You don’t look at anything besides Photoplay—and even then somebody’s gotta explain the pictures to you.” Daisy’s mouth hung open in outrage. “Well, I never!” “Yeah, that’s what you tell all your fellas, but the rest of us aren’t buying it. Go away, now, Daisy. Shoo, little fly!
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No? Part girl, part wolf? Do they lick their butter knives?
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Evie didn’t mind yelling, but she hated feeling judged. It got under her skin and made her feel small and ugly and unfixable.
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I can be whatever. You can be whatever. We can be whatever. Whatever, together.
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They see her differently now, as somebody. And isn't that what everyone wants? To be seen?
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Promise. Don't misunderstand me-you are quite vexing. He touches his tender jaw. And you hit like a man. But you didn't cause his illness. That is his doing.
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Careful there, Poet. I might start to believe you.
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There is nothing more terrifying than the absoluteness of one who believes he's right.
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Naughty John, Naughty John, does his work with his apron on. Cuts your throat and takes your bones, sells 'em off for a coupla stones.
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Everything is randomly connected.
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But sons are a different matter to a man. More a duty than an indulgence.
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They don't know what they're in for at Spence, getting me, a ghost of a girl who'll nod and smile and take her tea but who isn't really here.
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Clothing left on the bed unfolded. Books stained with coffee spots. Tabs not paid until the last possible second. Boys kissed and then forgotten in a week’s time.
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But you've changed,' I whisper. 'Haven't you?' It is the scorpian's nature to sting. Just because he has no opportunity doesn't mean that he cannot.
Libba Bray