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“We are all alone in the world,” he said, and his words were the clouds when they muffle the moon at night, they resembled the earth gone bitter, choking the sprout in its cradle.
What about Casiopea? Surely the sonnets, the turns of phrases in poems, had schooled her somewhat. But then, like him, she had lived vicariously, had seen the world from a distance. The yearning inside her was impossible, like when as a child she’d wished to pluck a shooting star from the sky; it was wildly familiar and new at the same time.
“Anyone who expects sweetness from the grave is a fool,” he declared. “Not sweetness. But…I don’t know, kindness. It’s strange, perhaps it is because I am dying that I do not want others to die too. I want everything to live.”
“Young, as you are young. Look at you, like the dawn,” he said. “You can’t understand, of course, but one day you’ll want to be new again,” he continued. “You’ll wish to return to this moment of perfection when you were the embodiment of all promises.”
