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The wound is the place where light enters you. —Rumi
Beauty is terror. Whatever we call beautiful, we quiver before it. —Donna Tartt, The Secret History
Death was the only truth of life.
She just wanted to open what was already dead and see their insides to find out why and how they died. It was the reason that fascinated her, more than the act itself.
little asp,”
Uhmmm, why just why?
The pencil that he had been spinning, the one she had thought could be an effective weapon, was suddenly against the blond’s eye, an inch away as both men went quiet. “I will happily use your blood as paint if you ever threaten me again,” he warned, his tone casual but sharp, and dear lord, she had never heard something more beautiful than a foreshadowing of death with that sound, the imagery of blood being used as paint morbid. “Make you a part of my masterpiece in ways you don’t want, do you understand?” Damn.
