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Flesh wounds, all while a cancer consumed what was beneath.
“There is no map for the path we must walk in times like this,” Vincent said. “But we must seize the chances that are given to us.
Mische told stories the way a painter flung colors across the canvas—with grand, artistic gusto, expressions bright, hands flying, voice rising and falling like a piano’s melody.
“Because I’ve learned that you can’t live on grief,” I said. “It’s poison. It festers into bitterness and hatred. If you have nothing else to offer a heart, grief will just hollow it out until that’s all that you are.
For a moment, I couldn’t hear anything because I heard everything—the
“Maybe greatness should come not from the sacrifices you make, but the ones you refuse to.”
it’s in that fear that we hold our greatest strength.
Such is the glory of fate. It is forged, not born.”
Be deliberate in choosing your next actions. Be ruthless in executing them.”
“Be ruthless,
“I told you that strength is measured by the sacrifices we refused to make,”
“It’s hard work, to make the choice to do better every single night for the rest of your life.
Yes, it still bore the scars. But there was beauty in those, too, in a way.
an imperfect something.
There would always be wounds unhealed. Always be scars.
