Echo is a servant of the Nightray house.

Of course. I loved it so much it made me want to spit on you!!

We are linked by our shadows, not by our light.

People should learn that you cannot dwell in your past. One who dwells in the past hurts not only himself, but also the people around him.

Now now, Emily, it isn't nice to tell the truth.

Dont try to excuse yourself by saying you're doing it for someone else's sake. - Break

I want to know what it is, this 'sin' they say I've committed.

There was a little girl, When she was good, she was very, very good. But when she was bad, she was horrid.

I was rejected, never given any expectations. ... Then at least, I won't be a burden to others. It's alright if the only one who hurts is me...!

Someone once said, 'That place is engulfed in darkness'- however that does in no way mean that there was never any light.

Even if I'm to be tortured, to be mistreated, to be humiliated, Echo doesn't have a right to fight against it.

He said he'd never opened up to anyone... But that confiding in me, was like learning to breathe all over again. I don't know about you, but how do you turn away from that?

Note to self: don’t throw things at girls.

He walked, groping for a sentence that hung in his mind as an empty shape. He could neither fill it or dismiss it.

Are they Russian by way of the Ozarks?

The best form of flattery is to be admired, imitated or respected. I've always felt proud our fans look up to us or feel we are inspirational.

My paintings should become objects into which one could float, as in water, so that one's mind is hung... suspended, and the emanation of the painting would penetrate into people's consciousness.

As we can not love what is hateful, let us accustom ourselves neither to think nor to speak of disagreeable things and persons.

It makes my makeup artist's life easier. [Plus] it makes my eyes look a little more open on TV, which is where I happen to work right now.

You got to love to be able to play

The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.