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Not that we are here to judge. Although we’re here, so why not have at it.
(even if that sameness looks very suspiciously like creature comforts in other, more flattering lights).
his goodness, because goodness was predictable. It was its own kind of trap.
How quickly the miracle of life could become stale.
He felt a nostalgia, an aching, pulsating missing of her despite the fact that he’d only had her for a moment, for a breath of imaginary time.
For Eilidh, Thayer was a kindred spirit: someone who shared her personal grief and sense of having been torn into fractions, equally split as she was into parts of before and after—multiple people living irreconcilably in one body, one mind, one everlasting taste of regret.
stress was something she lived beside,
It was impossible not to fall in love in autumn, something about the colors, or the way death and rot were such powerful erotic motivators.
you can almost forget what kind of madness lives in your chest until it shows up again to destroy you.
Like girlhood, ballet was art meant for consumption; it was virtuous because it was beautiful pain.
Hopefully she would be firing arrows because she understood the world didn’t wait for you to take the time to draw.
She might be a star, but he was still a man.
It might be lonely once you get here, but nobody chooses it for the company. They choose it for the view.”
“Oh, Meredith, it is so fucking easy to love you. The hard stuff with you is the being loved part.”
Could Jamie ever know, could he ever really know that he had made Meredith want to grow old for him? So that she would never have to miss a minute. So that everything of hers would also be his.
She could not walk this earth if Jamie Ammar was alive, if he lived separately from her.
Baby, life fucks us all.
Beauty the way ancient ruins are beautiful, for having beheld something vast.
Which isn’t to say that Yves is not complex, because loving a world for the existence of waffles is a very impressive thing to do when the oceans are frankly just lying in wait for the chance to swallow us up.
Eilidh Wren, you are magic, and unto magic you may call.
