Devon had been so lonely, so terribly lonely, for so long. The kind of lonely that sears, that burrows its way deep inside a heart and throbs. Like a gnawing hunger.

She can paint a lovely picture, but this story has a twist. her paintbrush is a razor, and her canvas is her wrist.

And wishes, truly wishes, that she could say the same herself. Because hurting herself would be so much easier.

A pattern of raised crisscrossed scars, some old and white, others more recent in various shades of pink and red. Exposing the stress of the structure underneath its paint

L'artGreen arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth, Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

In our dreams, we find the dreams of others, and in other’s dreams we find ourselves. No will is separated from others and no dream is in itself isolated from the will of God.

When you come back you will not be you. And I may not be I.

If you intend to go to work there is no better place than right where you are; if you do not intend to go to work, you can not get along anywhere.

So, what's it like in the real world? Well, the food is better, but beyond that, I don't recommend it.

Religious doctrines do not and clearly cannot be adopted as the criminal code of a state.

What pursuit is more elegant than that of collecting the ignominies of our nature and transfixing them for show, each on the bright pin of a polished phrase?

There are levels of outrage, and there's a point at which you can't be trespassed upon anymore.

The world today doesn't make sense, so why should I paint pictures that do?

The more people you know from different backgrounds, the more tolerant you feel of different ways of living, and the closer you feel to the issues that those people have.