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Nearly everyone could be undone by an old woman’s displeasure.
he was just caught somewhere between wakefulness and sleep. That place where monsters really exist.
He was strangely grateful for the pills. They shaved down the sharp edges of his emotions. Until he felt smooth and round. Easier to roll along, no matter the bumps and curves.
She yearned to be seen but felt awkward each time it happened.
The ugly truth was that these patients weren’t here to be cured. There were no cures for them. They had illnesses that had to be managed, by them and by those who treated them. They were like ships that would never find a shore. The most you could do was bring them supplies; the most they could do was get used to the rocking, the unpredictability, of the vast, impenetrable ocean below them.
They were like a pair of leopards, held too long in a zoo. Remarkable, but a little ruined.
The reading became a muscle relaxant, a sedative, a salve, and there was nothing wrong with that.
The outsized power of fear and the way it reshapes reality.
He smiled so brightly that he shined.
To compare a woman’s butt with anything man-made is to denigrate the first and elevate the second.
Maybe they weren’t in love, but they seemed to enjoy each other’s company, which is a hell of a lot of happiness sometimes.
“That’s the funny thing,” she said. “Men always want to die for something. For someone. I can see the appeal. You do it once and it’s done. No more worrying, not knowing, about tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. I know you all think it sounds brave, but I’ll tell you something even braver. To struggle and fight for the ones you love today. And then do it all over again the next day. Every day. For your whole life. It’s not as romantic, I admit. But it takes a lot of courage to live for someone, too.”
Her joy was a universal language.
