Neil Gaiman

Have you ever been in love?
Horrible, isn't it?
It makes you so vulnerable. Itopens your chest and opens your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.
You build up all these defenses.
You build up this whole armor, for years, so no one can hurt you, then one stupid person, no different from any other stupid person, wanders into your stupid life.... You give them a piece of you. They don't ask for it. They do something dumb one day, like kiss you or smile at you, and then your life isn't your own anymore. Love takes hostages.
It gets inside you. It eats you out and leaves you crying in the darkness, so a simple phrase like 'maybe we should just be friends' turns into a glass splinter working its way into your heart. It hurts. Not just in the mind. It's a soul hurt, a body hurt, a real gets-inside-you-and-rips-you-apart pain.
I hate love.

Have you ever been in love? Horrible isn't it? It makes you so vulnerable. It opens your chest and it opens up your heart and it means that someone can get inside you and mess you up.

Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly

Sometimes you wake up. Sometimes the fall kills you. And sometimes, when you fall, you fly

"Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill."

You can say "This is a bad comic." You can't say "This is bad because it's a comic."

May your coming year be filled with magic and dreams and good madness. I hope you read some fine books and kiss someone who thinks you're wonderful, and don't forget to make some art -- write or draw or build or sing or live as only you can. And I hope, somewhere in the next year, you surprise yourself.

The cat dropped the rat between its two front paws.  "There are those," it said with a sigh, in tones as smooth as oiled silk, "who have suggested that the tendency of a cat to play with its prey is a merciful one -- after all, it permits the occasional funny little running snack to escape, from time to time.  How often does your dinner get to escape?"

But he didn't understand the price. Mortals never do. They only see the prize. Their heart's desire, their dreams...But the price of getting what you want is getting what you once wanted.

Things need not have happened to be true. Tales and dreams are the shadow-truths that will endure when mere facts  are dust and ashes, and forgot.