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“Persephone smiled. "Caleb and I play Super MArio Kart every day at one, and when he cancelled on me I knew something was up."
I looked at Caleb slowly.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, Apollyon

“Thank you," Caleb said, and hugged me once more. Part of me wanted to stay in Caleb's arms, because he'd always had this grounding effect on me. Caleb was my rational side. He was more than that; other than my mother, he was the first person I'd ever truly loved.
Caleb would always be my best friend.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, Apollyon

“Aiden was staring. So was Caleb, although he looked like he was quite used to all this...woman on display. Hell, even I was staring.
She crossed the hall, her long legs parting the chiffon of her skirt, playing peekaboo. Dear gods, I felt my cheeks start to burn, but I still couldn't look away. As she neared, her all-white eyes flared, and then dimmed. Two bright, emerald-colored eyes appeared.
Caleb relaxed beside me, a slow smile creeping across his handsome face—the face I'd missed so much. "Hello, Persephone.”
― Jennifer L. Armentrout, Apollyon

“What the myth founds is a double existence between the upper world and the underworld: a dimension of death is introduced into life, and a dimension of life is introduced into death.”
― Walter Burkert, Greek Religion

“I thought there was something weird with all of you, I just couldn't figure out what it was. But now I know. It all makes sense." Her dark, tear-filled eyes sparkled as her accusatory gaze traveled from one of us to the other. "I can tell you battle on the side of good, and I want to join you." She turned to Frank, brushed her curly hair away from her throat, and closed her eyes. "Go ahead. Do it."

There was a long silence as everyone stared at Kayla's shapely neck. Then Frank looked helplessly at John.

....

"Kayla," I said walking over to her and giving her shoulders a shake. "No one's going to bite you.”
― Meg Cabot

“And you can glance out the window for a moment, distracted by the sound of small kids playing a made-up game in a neighbor's yard, some kind of kickball maybe, and they speak in your voice, or piggyback races on the weedy lawn, and it's your voice you hear, essentially, under the glimmerglass sky, and you look at the things in the room, offscreen, unwebbed, the tissued grain of the deskwood alive in light, the thick lived tenor of things, the argument of things to be seen and eaten, the apple core going sepia in the lunch tray, and the dense measures of experience in a random glance, the monk's candle reflected in the slope of the phone, hours marked in Roman numerals, and the glaze of the wax, and the curl of the braided wick, and the chipped rim of the mug that holds your yellow pencils, skewed all crazy, and the plied lives of the simplest surface, the slabbed butter melting on the crumbled bun, and the yellow of the yellow of the pencils, and you try to imagine the word on the screen becoming a thing in the world, taking all its meanings, its sense of serenities and contentments out into the streets somehow, its whisper of reconciliation, a word extending itself ever outward, the tone of agreement or treaty, the tone of repose, the sense of mollifying silence, the tone of hail and farewell, a word that carries the sunlit ardor of an object deep in drenching noon, the argument of binding touch, but it's only a sequence of pulses on a dullish screen and all it can do is make you pensive--a word that spreads a longing through the raw sprawl of the city and out across the dreaming bournes and orchards to the solitary hills.

Peace.”
― DeLillo Don

“A woman's body is the gate to this life. A man's body is the gate to the next life.”
― Louise Erdrich, The Antelope Wife