sam ✶

“The first morning Simon had been at Amatis's house, a grinning lycanthrope had showed up on the doorstep with a live cat for him.
"Blood," he'd said, in a heavily accented voice. "For you. Fresh!"
Simon had thanked the werewolf, waited from him to leave, and let the cat go, his expression faintly green.
"We'll you're going to have to get your blood from somewhere," said Luke, looking amused.
"I have a pet cat," Simon replied. "There's no way.”
― Cassandra Clare, City of Glass

“she glanced down and saw that a glove of blood covered her lower arm from the elbow to the wrist. The arm
was throbbing, stiff, and painful.
"Is this when you start tearing strips off your T-shirt to bind up my wound?" she joked.
She hated the sight of blood, especially her own.
"If you wanted me to rip my clothes off, you should have just asked." He dug into his pocket and brought out
his stele. "It would have been a lot less painful.”
― Cassandra Clare, City of Bones

“People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles. This is the first thing I hear when I come back to the city. Blair picks me up from LAX and mutters this under her breath as she drives up the onramp. She says, "People are afraid to merge on freeways in Los Angeles." Though that sentence shouldn't bother me, it stays in my mind for an uncomfortably long time. Nothing else seems to matter. Not the fact that I'm eighteen and it's December and the ride on the plane had been rough and the couple from Santa Barbara, who were sitting across from me in first class, had gotten pretty drunk. Not the mud that had splattered on the legs of my jeans, which felt kind of cold and loose, earlier that day at an airport in New Hampshire. Not the stain on the arm of the wrinkled, damp shirt I wear, a shirt which looked fresh and clean this morning. Not the tear on the neck of my gray argyle vest, which seems vaguely more eastern than before, especially next to Blair's clean tight jeans and her pale-blue shirt. All of this seems irrelevant next to that one sentence. It seems easier to hear that people are afraid to merge than "I'm pretty sure Muriel is anorexic" or the singer on the radio crying out about magnetic waves. Nothing else seems to matter to me but those ten words. Not the warm winds, which seem to propel the car down the empty asphalt freeway, or the faded smell of marijuana which still faintly permeates Blaire's car. All it comes down to is the fact that I'm a boy coming home for a month and meeting someone whom I haven't seen for four months and people are afraid to merge.”
― Bret Easton Ellis, Less Than Zero

“It is easy to see things in retrospect. But I was ignorant then of everything but my own happiness, and I don’t know what else to say except that life itself seemed very magical in those days: a web of symbol, coincidence, premonition, omen. Everything, somehow, fit together; some sly and benevolent Providence was revealing itself by degrees and I felt myself trembling on the brink of a fabulous discovery, as though any morning it was all going to come together–my future, my past, the whole of my life–and I was going to sit up in bed like a thunderbolt and say oh! oh! oh!”
― Donna Tartt, The Secret History