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Murder had never been his favorite method of disposal.
Death lives in the too-quiet silences, in the deepest parts of night. Death makes a home in the moments of stiffness, the seconds before a fall; in the heavy-hearted candor of the surgeon’s hands, the archer’s bow, the executioner’s axe, the injectioner’s needle. Death lurks, he stalks, he waits—or so we would believe, anyway, in our selfish vanities and prides, because Death lives so vibrantly in our consciousness that it is exceedingly difficult to imagine he might actually have a home of his own.
wishes are darker things than we imagine because they are so close to wants, and from there only inches from desires, and thus can so easily devolve headlong into vices—
The stakes are impossibly high, and yet laughably low. There is only one secret: The more you have to lose, the harder it is to win. There is only one rule: Don’t lose.
Things are so much sweeter when they have an ending; things are so much more painful when they can be ripped away.”
“Fuck is a good word, Fox. I like it. It fits nicely in my mouth. I like the way it feels like a weapon.”
‘astronomically unending possibilities with infinitesimally small likelihoods of each’
living and being alive were not even remotely the same.
“What’s past is passed, and cannot be altered. But reality is, of course, always subject to your choices. To what you alone believe to be real.”
“It is to win against your demons,” he said, “and therefore gain mastery of yourself.”
“What life could we have had where I never told you that I loved you?” Brandt begged, and it was wretched, and undignified, and all of it, every breath of it, for Fox. “What kind of life could have ever been enough if I never confessed that I would love you, Fox, for every day that I walked this earth?”
“Immortality is empty without you,”
“Papa,” Fox sighed, shaking his head. “That pain you feel? That’s love.” Death paused. “Is it?” he asked. “Yes,” Fox said. “Well,” Death grumbled, “then it’s fucking stupid.” “It is,” Fox agreed. “And a highly mortal impulse.” “I hate it,” Death said. “I’d prefer it gone.”
To love, to forgive, to lose, to live—it was always a choice, and thus, the fact that he was a mortal was finally one worth celebrating. Because it would end! Maybe that was the entire secret, and therefore the whole thing was actually astonishingly simple. That over and over, he was presented with the same impossible decision—live and suffer, love and grieve—but still, every time, with all his being, his answer was and would always be yes. It would be difficult and painful, and however it ended, it would end—but still, he could choose it. To live, to love; it was always a choice, and
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