Alistair.

we don't get to choose the people we are.

everyone's a whore, grace. we just sell different parts of ourselves.

at first, when unaccustomed to death’s sting, i thought that, should you die, each sweetest thing, each thing of any merit on this earth, would perish also. beauty, love, and mirth: and that the world, despoiled and god-forsaken, its glories gone, its greater treasures taken.

but even without a family, i can promise you that, that yearning to be with other people is powerful. that emotion is the foundation, of what makes us human

somebody showed you all of the horror / you weren't born with it