The world has long forgotten, but we mountain-dwellers live in the prayer wheel of time.
My role was to pulse at the edge of the universe of the faithful, alone in the darkness. An outrider. A herald.
Middle age is flown, but it is attitude, not years, that condemns one to the ranks of the Undead, or else proffers salvation. In the domain of the young there dwells many an Undead soul. They rush about so, their inner putrefaction is concealed for a few decades, that is all.
Why does any martyr cooperate with his judases?
Most yarnin’s got a bit o’ true, some yarnin’s got some true, an’ a few yarnin’s got a lot o’ true.
Yay, when it came to faces, pretty lies was better’n scabbin’ true.
Oh, eerie’n’so beautsome’n’blue she was, my soul was achin’.
An abyss cannot be crossed in two steps.
He chiseled open the fault lines in the others’ personalities.
Ah, Klaas! Dear Klaas reverted to compost many years ago.
Rights are susceptible to subversion, as even granite is susceptible to erosion.
During those nine pouched-up months, what do babies imagine? Gills, swamps, battlefields? To people in wombs, what is imagined and what is real must be one and the same.
I put ten sugar cubes in my coffee. I drank it through my tongue, and my blood sang like the Archangel Gabriel as the sugar flooded in. That can’t be natural.
Dawn Madden’s got cruel eyes like a Chinese empress and sometimes one glimpse at school makes me think about her all day.
Her oil-black hair’s sort of punky. She must use gel. I’d love to gel her gel in for her.
Travel far enough, you meet yourself.
How lazily “xperts” dismiss what they fail to understand!
I believe death is only a door. One closes, and another opens. If I were to imagine heaven, I would imagine a door opening. And he would be waiting for me there.
Our lives are not our own. We are bound to others, past and present, and by each crime and every kindness, we birth our future.
Books don’t offer real escape, but they can stop a mind scratching itself raw.