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What a way to go: death-by-shoe-Shade.
“Ah, Mac,” he says, and his laughter is as dark and cold as the place of which I dream, “one day you will wonder if it’s possible to hate me more.”
They can’t break me. I won’t cease. I’m strong. And I am never going to go away until I’ve gotten what I came for. I might have been lost for a while, but I was never gone.
Don’t confuse intensity of emotion with quality of emotion, baby,
Pain is not love, Mac. Love makes you feel good.
Means to an end. That was all it had been for him.
“Don’t lose yourself in anger, Mac. It’s gasoline. You can burn it as fuel, or you can use it to torch everything you care about and end up standing on a scorched battlefield, with everybody dead, even you—only your body doesn’t have the good grace to quit breathing.”
Strength wasn’t about being able to do everything alone. Strength was knowing when to ask for help and not being too proud to do it.
It’s funny how, when things seem the darkest, moments of beauty present themselves in the most unexpected places.
When you’re staring death in the face, time has a funny way of slowing down.
