Important things hurt sometimes.” Dorian smiles at the statement, despite the truth of it or because of it.
He was never at the beginning of this story. This story is much, much older than he is.
The climb was long but the day was bright, the wolves asleep, or perhaps the wolves were a thing that people talked about and not a thing that was.
I’m not sure I want to be in a relationship right now anyway. Things change.
Usted es un mago por sus propios meritos.
The heart of the tale and the ideas behind it are simple. Time has altered and condensed their nuances, made them more than story, greater than the sums of their parts.
Tal vez simplemente hacemos cosas similares de maneras diferentes.
It won’t be the same when you get back,” Eleanor says. “Sometimes you can’t go back to the same old place, you have to go to the new ones.
Neither of them has the words for this moment in this story, not in any language.
The ancient stories that flames whisper to moths.
Doors are closing, taking possibilities with them. The story is recorded even when she is unsure of how it goes and now someone else follows after her, reading. Looking for the ending.
He carries the light into places long unfamiliar with illumination that accept it like a half-remembered dream.
We’d had a cool conversation about overlapping narratives, too, and how no single story is ever the whole story.
The nights were long... The innkeeper could not travel to his village, but he was well supplied. He made soups and stews. He sat by the fire and read books he had been meaning to read... He drank whiskey and wine. He read more books.
Los mejores placeres son siempre los inesperados.
He wondered... how many people breathed this air that smells of smoke and honey and if any of them felt the way he feels now; unsure and afraid and unable to know which decision is the right one, if there is a right decision at all.
I believed once that I was here to read and not to be read but the story has changed.
I remember we talked about stories, and how they work and how they don’t and how life can seem so slow and weird when you expect it to be more like a story, with all the boring bits and everyday stuff edited out. The sort of stuff Z and I used to talk about.
The door remembers the time when it was complete.
It is the idea of a party constructed by bees. It doesn’t feel real, but it does feel familiar.