At the Museum of Literature, Zoe encounters an eccentric staff in the Books of Dubious Origins department and must discover the truth about her powers and heritage.

Reality, I think, is mostly imagination, poorly disguised.

Why are feelings so brutal? Everyone makes friendship seem like garden parties and sleepovers when really it’s Jurassic Park for emotions.

That was the way of grief, I was realizing. It was a barrage of pain that was so unbearable that it made you numb. And then out of nowhere, something made you feel again and the cycle started over from the beginning.

I realized that it didn’t matter how perfect I was. I was never going to be good enough because they didn’t want me to be perfect or extraordinary. They wanted me to be invisible.

My magic, which I had been waiting to feel surge through me as a tide, remained dormant. It lurked like a skeleton, hiding beneath my skin, marrow brimming with untapped power.

An absurd thing for the murderous state to plead for, but, as always, the massive violence of the state was “justice,” was “law and order,” and resistance to perpetual violence was an act of terror. It would have been funny if there weren’t so much blood everywhere.

People aren’t so bad. They’re just wounded little kids trying to heal.

But never underestimate the American bourgeoisie’s capacity to embrace fascism under the name of populism. Or the power of television. Without TV, Kennedy would never have beaten Nixon.

Heck, I’ve lost my temper a few times. Also, I can be a bit too blunt, and excuse it by saying I’m just an honest person, but if I’m truly being honest, sometimes blunt is just mean. Honesty can be an excuse for bullying.

There is doom to be found everywhere if doom is what you seek.

What chilling mystery awaits the people of Tokyo in these strange houses.

No one called Marty Walsh “Farty” but me, the only reason being that anyone who talked out of his ass as much as he did deserved a name to match.

My baba says the only society worth living in is one where everyone has access to food, shelter, clean water, and health services.

The magic itself was not evil. It was what you did with it, how you shaped the tools given to your use.

‘She’s not sick, but there’s no life in her. I don’t know what to do.’

Removing his spectacles, as he always did when he believed that serious matters were at hand, the old man said, ‘Poor child. Reality is poisoning her blood.’

The surface of love was a feeling, but beyond this thin layer, there was a fathomless, winding maze of caverns offering many paces to see and explore.

A very hyped short story for a detailed and heavy topic.