I'm honor-bound not to struggle with this since you just retrieved it all by yourself. Please do me the courtesy of pretending this is hard for you as well.

Death is an insatiable creature with greedy hands.

Forget math and peotry. Especially poetry.

Talking to her is like coming home and finding the furniture in every room rearranged. The same pieces are there, the same sense of comfort, but nothing is exactly the where you'd expect.