Delirium Stories: Hana, Annabel, and Raven

What glitters may not be gold; and even wolves may smile; and fools will be led by promises to their deaths.

Amor deliria nervosa. The deadliest of all deadly things.

Lies are just stories, and stories are all that matter. We all tell stories. Some are more truthful than others, maybe, but in the end the only thing that counts is what you can make people believe.

Is it possible to tell the truth in a society of lies? Or must you always, of necessity, become a liar? And if you lie to a liar, is the sun somehow negated or reversed?

That’s what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable—and all the time we’re being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.

But that's the problem with love—it acts on you, works through you, resists your attempts to control...Love obeys no laws other than its own. That's what has always made it frightening.

A path and a place for everyone, and for the people who disagree, a hole.

That, too, is an itch—the desire to see him, to kiss him again, to let him put his fingers in my hair—is a monstrous, constant, crawling feeling in my blood and bones. It's worse than a disease. It's a poison. And I like it.