And then, there were the gates. They stood open, wide and welcoming. The black wrought iron twisted into delicate patterns of leaves and long vines that climbed toward words, forged in bold letters overhead. We are not for sale.
“What is an "instant" death anyway? How long is an instant? Is it one second? Ten? The pain of those seconds must have been awful as her heart burst and her lungs collapsed and there was no air and no blood to her brain and only raw panic. What the hell is instant? Nothing is instant. Instant rice takes five minutes, instant pudding an hour. I doubt that an instant of blinding pain feels particularly instantaneous.”
― Looking for Alaska
― Looking for Alaska
Chelsie’s 2025 Year in Books
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