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calm and content again, to wait for sunrise to bloom over her world.
A symbol of hope, he thought, endurance, as it was beauty that grew out of mud.
“It’s impossible to love and be wise.” “Who said that?” “Francis Bacon.
Where there is a great deal of light, the shadows are deeper.
“No, that’s part of the point. It’s a wall of stories. Take out any one, go anywhere. It’s … Storyland.”
“They’re not so different, words and pictures. Both freeze moments, both stay with you long after the moment’s over.”
“Awesome color, and just a little less usual. And it’s got heart-shaped leaves.”
‘History, with all her volumes vast, hath but one page.’ That’s Byron.”
For an instant he wondered how people lived this way, how they could carry so much for someone else inside them.
He leaned over, touched his lips to hers. As long as there’s love, she thought, sighing into the kiss. And the good, strong place to build a life together. A life of sunrises and lilacs, of friends and quiet moments. And a really good dog.
