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What is a person, if not the marks they leave behind?
“You’re really good,” and she is—it’s amazing what you can learn when you have the time.
The day passes like a sentence. The sun falls like a scythe.
attraction can look an awful lot like recognition in the wrong light.
Funny, how some people take an age to warm, and others simply walk into every room as if it’s home.
It is so much easier to share a secret than to keep one,
A secret kept. A record made. The first mark she left upon the world, long before she knew the truth, that ideas are so much wilder than memories, that they long and look for ways of taking root.
Palimpsest.
Being forgotten, she thinks, is a bit like going mad. You begin to wonder what is real, if you are real. After all, how can a thing be real if it cannot be remembered?
“Small places make for small lives. And some people are fine with that. They like knowing where to put their feet. But if you only walk in other people’s steps, you cannot make your own way. You cannot leave a mark.”
Choosing a class became choosing a discipline, and choosing a discipline became choosing a career, and choosing a career became choosing a life, and how was anyone supposed to do that, when you only had one?
She has gone so long without roots, she doesn’t know how to grow them anymore.
they sit before the fire like friends, or at least, like foes at rest,
That time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.
