#pg 56

“You talk like a recipe exists to accustom one to death,” I said, bitter.

… on the other plane, the plane of immanence or consistency, the principle of composition itself must be perceived, cannot but be perceived at the same time as that which it composes or renders. … Perception will no longer reside in the relation between a subject and an object, but rather in the movement serving as the limit of that relation, in the period associated with the subject and object. Perception will confront its own limit; it will be in the midst of things, throughout its own proximity, as the presence of one haecceity in another, the prehension of one by the other or the passage from one to the other: Look only at the movements.

"Indeed," Kelsier agreed. “The man did call us Mistings, Vin-- though the appellation was a bit hasty, since neither Dox nor I are technically Mistings.  We do, however associate with them quite a bit.”

Infuriatingly, she was objectively pretty and popular but masqueraded as a tormented alternative. She dyed her brown hair jet black, wore caramel-colored corduroys, and would write things on her arms in pen so she wouldn't forget them, thoughts she later wrote in her LiveJournal, which I followed assiduously even though we weren't friends in real life. Her entries were made up of Bright Eyes lyrics conflated with her own romantic encounters and meandering ruminations largely written in the second person, directed at someone anonymous who had either wronged her or for whom she desperately longed. I thought she was one of the great American poets of our time