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I Quotes

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All I Quotes

“It wasn't that I gave up on her healing, but, as she continued to struggle to get in the door and actively needed her self-hatred to stay functional, I began to realize more deeply that her patterns had meaning and that it wasn't useful for me to predetermine what recovery might look like for her.”

“It wasn't that I was lazy- I was a bloody hard worker- I just found concentrating on one thing particularly difficult when I had such mammoth internal battles going on. I had no idea what I was going to do with my life. Only when I was physically exhausted did I seem to manage a modicum of internal peace, when my mind would stop ticking over. I needed to try and get to grips with it all. There was a very little awareness about 'mental health' in those days. I just felt like I was mad,”

“It wasn't that Nina didn't make equally tasty buns, but Zod, her rogue apprentice, had refined the dough to a featherlight brioche with a subtle tang. He filled the pockets not just with beef and onions, but peach jam, saffron rice pudding, smoked sturgeon, potatoes and dill, cabbage and caraway apples, duck confit and chopped orange peel, and, once, even a pearl that fell into the lemon custard when Nina's necklace snapped, beads hitting the counter like hailstones.”

“It wasn’t the first time Alabama had overdosed, but it had been the scariest. Though she would never tell Richie this, there had been a moment during the experience—impossible to say for how long; could have been a minute, could have been an hour—when she had died. At least, that’s how it had felt after she had clawed her way back from it. Death didn’t scare Alabama; in fact, sometimes, part of her yearned for it. What terrified her was how lonely she had felt, lost in oblivion. No one had greeted her at the borders of another realm, because that other realm was just another lie in a world full of them. Instead, there had been nothing at all in every direction, forever. Perfect darkness. The absence of everything.”

“It wasn’t the first time I’d run across sex spells: they were just as common as electricity-kindled spells. They just aren’t convenient for your average on-the-go magical needs. “Do all the memory spells require that?” I asked. “I don’t think so. I just noticed it on the last couple of retrieval ones.” “Uh, maybe I could just get myself, you know, privately …?” I suggested. I regretted it immediately, and felt my face flush with warmth. What the hell was I going to do? Ask Lon if he had any porn I could borrow and hole up in his library’s washroom?”

“It wasn't the first time I had relied on her in our strange, undefined 'relationship.' Late-night texts, spontaneous meet-ups, testing boundaries—most of the time, she did bite. But this? This felt different. It wasn't just curiosity or intrigue anymore. I wasn't just waiting to see how far I could push her. I needed her. I wanted her in a way I couldn't fully explain, in a way that went far beyond anything I'd felt before.”

“It wasn’t the first time someone had disappeared from my life due to my own fault: due to my tendency to solitude and silence, dut to my sometimes unjustifiable reserve, due to my inability to keep relationships alive (even those I have with people I love or who genuinely interest me). This has always been one of my great defects, and it has caused me more than one disappointment and has dissapointed other more than once. There’s nothing I can do aboutn it, however, because nobody changes their nature by the mere force of will.”

“It wasn’t the pain that bothered him most. It would pass; he would heal. It wasn’t the constant humiliation, the total loss of dignity, the unwanted invasions of his body... those tortures were familiar now too. He was as accustomed to shame and degradation as he was to his shackles and cage. What hurt most were the memories of flying, fierce and proud and free. And the knowledge that his future contained only endless towns full of rubes eager to hand over their money to Davenport. In the musty darkness of his cage, with the sounds of the engine, creaking springs, and rolling tires as camouflage, Tenrael wept.”

“It wasn't…too long ago. But it feels like…years ago…since I felt…the warm hello of the sun. Lately things seem a little colder, the wind…it seems to get a little bolder. The eagle was flying…now it's on the run. But then again, it's all in my mind. Ever since I lost that glow I've been feeling so down all the time. Where's that girl of mine…”

“It wasn't tuna ventresca that drew diners to this community over others, nor was it heritage beef. It was the final bottle of a 1985 Cannonau, salt-crusted from its time on the Sardinian coast. Each diner had barely a swallow. My employer bid us not to swallow, not yet, but hold the wine at the back of the throat till it stung and warmed to the temperature of blood and spit, till we wrung from it the terroir of fields cracked by quake and shadowed by smog; only then, swallowing, choking, grateful, did we appreciate the fullness of its flavor. His face was ferocious and sublime in this moment, cracked open; I saw it briefly behind the mask. He was a man who knew the gradations of pleasure because he knew, like me, the calculus of its loss. To me that wine was fig and plum; volcanic soil; wheat fields shading to salt stone; sun; leather, well-baked; and finally, most lingering, strawberry. Psychosomatic, I'm sure, but what flavor isn't? I raised my glass to the memory of my drunk in the British market. I imagined him sat across the table, calmed at last, sane among the sane. He would have tasted in that wine the starch of a laundered sheet, perhaps, or the clean smooth shot of his dignity. My employer decanted these deepest longings, mysterious to each diner until it flooded the palate: a lost child's yeasty scalp, the morning breath of a lover, huckleberries, onion soup, the spice of a redwood forest gone up in smoke. It is easy, all these years later, to dismiss that country's purpose as decadent, gluttonous. Selfish. It was those things. But it was, also, this connoisseurship of loss.”

“It wasn't until a burst of hot flame caressed my left hip that a tingling sensation, not unlike magic, crawled down my skin. Ryker gave a low chuckle. "Of course it's on your perfect ass." I craned my neck to see. Across my hip and indeed partially down my backside until it brushed the very top of the back of my leg, a pattern was revealed just a few shades darker than my skin. It was like having a lighter sort of henna painted across my hip in the design of scales. Dragon scales. "What is that?" I asked, startled. "The mark. My mark." Ryker mused. "The perfect match to my scale pattern, not repeated in any other dragon." Brushing my fingers over the skin, it didn't feel any different than it had before. It was just decorated now. My preferred black dresses would always cover it up, but my mind wandered to my closet and exactly what I owned that would show off a flash of scales at my hip. I needed to go shopping. "So, it was always there?" "Always," Ryker answered, a new sort of interest in his eyes. "How does your chest feel?" I rubbed a hand where the thrumming usually sat, but found it was gone. I had been so distracted by the process of being covered in fire and his taunting hands that didn't burn me that I hadn't noticed when it left. "I always knew I liked your ass," Ryker said. I frowned. "It's on my hip," I insisted. Ryker took one hand and smacked my left cheek, firmly on the mark. Immediately a delicious heat shot through it, running straight between my legs where I twitched in anticipation. Fuck. "What's the matter, Danica?" Ryker teased out my full name again, leaning down to meet my neck with a kiss.”