Good words

ragged to the extent of being filigree,

Edie pointed to the freaky, frondiferous doll.

Hannah drove a battered black Toyota that had been pulled apart and put back together so many times it constituted a philosophical conundrum.

Death looked reticent. “Fuck is a good word, Fox. I like it. It fits nicely in my mouth. I like the way it feels like a weapon.”

She struggled, she was struggling, and it felt real, more real than anything she’d experienced since she’d truly been alive, and for that she wondered at the irony. Because surely she was dying, wasn’t she? Surely only death could feel like this, like pain and panic and desperation alike, and surely only her death would give her this sense of antic