Taevase tule linn

Clary looked down at herself. She was wearing a pair of flannel pajamas, too short in the leg and tight in the chest, with fire trucks on them.
Luke raised an eyebrow. “I think those were mine when I was a kid.”
“You can’t seriously tell me there wasn’t anything else you could have put me in.”
“If you insist on trying to get yourself killed, I insist on being the one who chooses what you wear while you recover,” Jocelyn said with a tiny smirk.
“The pajamas of vengeance,” Clary muttered.

We are all the pieces of what we remember. We hold in ourselves the hopes and fears of those who love us. As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss.

People get scared, and they take it out on anyone they think is different. It's the same cycle I've seen a thousand times.

But then, perhaps your parents could always hurt you, no matter how old you were.

A burning wind blew past her, carrying with it the tang of ancient deserts, of a place where miracles were common and the divine was manifest in fire.

"Who's there?" he called, then frowned. "Of course," he added, addressing the darkness all around, "even I, as a Shadowhunter, have seen enough movies to know that anyone who yells 'Who's there?' is going to be instantly killed."

I only have two reactions to bad news. Uncontrollable rage and then a sharp left turn into boiling self-hatred.