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Such is the folly of youth,
somewhere, waiting for me . . .” My lover stands on golden sands and watches the ships that go sailin’.
places, just like people, can hold power over you if you let them.
“Because violence is never the answer,” Arthur said. Talia smiled sweetly. “But it can be the question.”
Hate is loud. We are louder.”
“I . . . when I lived in the city, I dreamed in color, of places where the sea stretched on for miles and miles.”
“It wouldn’t matter if you were one or one hundred,” Arthur said. “You would still be mine as much as I am yours. Nothing will ever change that.”
The sooner we arrive, the sooner we’ll be finished.”
“A time will come,” she said, “when all of us will have to make a choice between what is right and what is wrong. I worry that time is closer than we think.
It was as if the absence of color that engulfed the city had leached its way into these hallowed halls, leaving behind only the dreary brown-black of coffee dregs at the bottom of a mug.
Whether physical or psychological, each new blow lands upon a wound not yet given time to heal.
“Sic parvis magna.” “Greatness from small beginnings,”
“Confidence is silent. Insecurities are loud.”
“Because I’m an adult who does adult things, like taxes and laundry and being sad for no reason.”
I, too, am filled with an encroaching dread over my own mortality. I’ve always thought that being aware of one’s impending demise makes for a more interesting life, but I have yet to prove this particular hypothesis.
Trust, Arthur knew, was a treasure effortlessly stolen, often without rhyme or reason. And this particular treasure was a fragile thing, a piece of thin glass easily broken.
Why is it that I must always worry about tomorrows?
