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anxiety seemed to have caught her beauty in its net.
Heraclitus: a man cannot step in the same river twice, for it is not the same river, and he is not the same man.
They would have found evidence of the survival of consciousness after death.
Could there be grief so unresolved and potent that it continued on, flowed into the next life
She was not about to make the same mistake twice. She’d make a new mistake instead,
Why were we all hoarding love, stockpiling it, when it was all around us, moving in and out of us like the air, if only we could feel it?
What if what you did mattered more because life happened again and again, consequences unfolding across centuries and continents? What if you had chances upon chances to love the people you loved, to fix what you screwed up, to get it right?
