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Kindle Notes & Highlights
It’s filthy, corporeal work. But it’s instinct, fleshly instinct, that drives her like a rat from water. To save herself.
when it happens to us it’s for the best, but when it happens to them it’s tragedy.
She is so tired of waiting —aren’t you?— for the world to become good and tolerable and kind.
Lady Macbeth could have dashed a child’s sleeping head against a cinder block wall, if she had one. Not only watched the skull bloom red, a slow-burning poppy field set alight, but found satisfaction in the eruption.
Good lord!
If you find the tenor or shape of my words unappealing, know that you have made me. Thank you. I will use all this against you, and you will not see it coming.
A creature made docile with friction. I can’t exist in a way that comforts you.
