You speak of giving up my dreams. Have you ever, since Maeve's coven split, had a dream? Have you ever had anything worth dying for?

Life is nothing without a little chaos to make it interesting.

In a society that worships love, freedom and beauty, dance is sacred. It is a prayer for the future, a remembrance of the past and a joyful exclamation of thanks for the present.

What one person does, several people usually consider.

My prayer is simple my dear one, my dear one. May you never need understand. My prayer is for peacetime, my child, my child. Live it well and this life can be grand.

White pill, blue pill, yellow pill, purple pill; its like swallowing a rainbow every bedtime.

Some people use things; they destroy. You're a creator, a builder.

We are not. We never were; we never shall be. We return to the void we never, for mehay is the center of all, and all is the center of nothing.

I could not cry for my own brother; he would not want me to. But I found myself crying for this hated stranger and the endless slaughter that I had almost contributed to." (page 8)

Sacrifice of live, sacrifice for love. Fate is gentle and harsh; she gives and she takes.

A story isn't a charcoal sketch, where every stroke lies on the surface to be seen. It's an oil painting, filled with layers that the author must uncover so carefully to show its beauty.

If I could have any job in the world I'd be a professional Cinderella.

I try not to become friends with musicians, but life happens and dinner happens and going out happens - it becomes interwoven in L.A.

I hate overweight, because it implies that there's a weight standard i should be adhering to

The stars are always up in the sky...then when it is perfectly black, they feel less vulnerable and out they come.

To be sympathetic without discrimination is so very debilitating.

I've got absolutely no real perception, properly, of time.

I'm afraid there's nothing we can do about the journalists; we can only hope that they will die off as the deerflies do towards the end of August.

A mind that is very selective to forms... is apt to use its images metaphorically, to exploit their possible significance for the conception of remote or intangible ideas.

The words fire from my mouth like bullets, ricocheting off the walls before I can even register what I'm saying.

The night can sweat with terror as before We pieced our thoughts into philosophy, And planned to bring the world under a rule, Who are but weasels fighting in a hole.