That Was What Humans Did: They Left

Will Only Looked At Her. There Had Been Light In His Eyes On The Stairs, As He'd Locked The Door, When He'd Kissed Her--a Brilliant, Joyous Light. And It Was Going Now, Fading Like The Last Breath Of Someone Dying. She Thought Of Nate, Bleeding To Death In Her Arms. She Had Been Powerless Then, To Help Him. As She Was Now. She Felt As If She Were Watching The Life Bleed Out Of Will Herondale, And There Was Nothing She Could Do To Stop It.

Demon Pox. There's Always Demon Pox.

My Advice To Young Writers Would Be To Write Every Day, Even If It Is Only A Few Words. Get Yourself On The Habit Of Writing And It Will Become A Lifelong One. And Find A Place To Write Where You Are Physically Comfortable. You Can't Concentrate If You Aren't. Ernest Hemingway Could Only Write Standing Up, And Truman Capote Could Only Write Lying Down!

Will’s Hand Looked Brown And Sunburnt By Contrast, Their Fingers Dovetailed Together Like Piano Keys.

Now That You Know The Truth, You Can Never Go Back.