Poppy Z.Brite

Afraid they would never make it to adulthood and freedom, or that they would make it only at the price of their fragile souls; afraid that the world would prove too dull, too cold, that they would always be as alone as they felt right now.

Toward dawn he fell into restless sleep and dreamed of angels telling him to do violence

As the night deepened and the traffic thinned to nothing, it seemed to Zach that the whole country lay over the next rise, around the next bend of the highway all lit up and wide awake, violent and strange and joyous, just waiting for him to come find it

He felt like a man made of television static, of a million roaring, hissing silver dots.

You’re not in New Orleans where drinking’s de rigueur, not anymore. Why not just forget about the stuff and make him happy? Because I don’t WANT to!!! his mind raged in the voice of a cranky three-year-old. I LIKE to get drunk sometimes

Yielding flesh in his hands, hot with fear, sticky with sweat and blood and already smelling of heaven.

A million mirrors, and none of them broken.

Why don’t you hold it to your forehead and find out? Go on, tell me to fuck myself.”

“Suck my aura,” said Ghost, and swigged the last sweet drops of his wine

In those dark eyes Steve saw again the essence of childhood lost. The dark innocence, the doomed sadness. And the shame.

“I’m sorry,” Nothing said again

Sometimes a man grows tired of carrying everything the world heaps upon his head. The shoulders sag, the spine bows cruelly, the muscles tremble with weariness. Hope of relief begins to die. And the man must decide whether to cast off his load or endure it until his neck snaps like a brittle twig in autumn