Hidden in a toolbox, in the rafters of his four-car garage, was an envelope full of pictures taken by a private detective...They were pictures of a scrawny, boyish looking nine year old with a wide mouth and a tangle of brown hair...Her eyes were oblong and deep set, their color hidden from the camera by the slant of the sun. The angles and planes of her face were oddly beautiful just then, in that moment, frozen on Kodak paper. A hint of the woman she would someday become.

I'm not the protagonist of a novel or anything...I'm just a normal college student who likes to read...But...If I were to write a book with me as tge main character...It would be......A tragedy.

Even if it's a life in shackles, if you have somebody who accepts you for what you really are, how reassuring would that be?

There's no place for someone who can't decide between being one or the other.

What's tragic isn't that we can't retaliate...What's truly tragic is......being consumed with vengeance and not being able to live your life.

What's wrong with wanting to live...? We may be different but we were still given life. Given a chance. If we can only eat humans, then that's what we'll do. How else are we supposed to live with these bodies of ours?!