You may tell a tale that takes up residence in someone’s soul, becomes their blood and self and purpose.
Sometimes he feels he has lost his own story, fallen out of its pages and landed here, in between. But he remains in his story. He cannot leave it, no matter how he tries.
Only a single cat notices them in this moment and though the cat recognizes this mistake for what it is, it does not interfere. It is not the way of cats to interfere with fate.
Don’t waste your time on anyone who doesn’t believe you when you tell them how you feel.
Whatever happens will happen whether I worry about it or not.
He waits though once he never waited, would never dream to wait or wait to dream.
Sometimes life gets weird. You can try to ignore it or you can see where weird takes you.
But this is not where their story ends. Their story is only just beginning. And no story ever truly ends as long as it is told.
Now in this space the days and nights pass differently. Strangely, slowly. Languid and luscious.
He believes in books, he thinks as he leaves the room. That much he knows for sure.
Staying here won’t make me happy. It will make you happy because you are insipid and boring, and an insipid, boring life is enough for you. It’s not enough for me.
We are fish in a bowl, dear,” Tsukiko tells her, cigarette holder dangling precariously from her lips. “Very carefully monitored fish. Watched from all angles. If one of us floats to the top, it was not accidental. And if it was an accident, I worry that the watchers are not as careful as they should be.
The sound of his pencil scratching against paper is as methodical and precise as the ticking of the clock in the corner.
The chocolates are shaped like mice, with almond ears and licorice tails.
Fates Foretold and Darkest Desires Disclosed.
And over the following months some of the articles are reprinted in other German papers, and eventually they are translated and printed in Sweden and Denmark and France. One article finds its way into a London paper, printed under the title “Nights at the Circus.
They are gods with lost myths, writing themselves new ones.
El futuro nunca esta escrito en piedra.
Time passes. Things change.
But he spends so much time in front of screens he has a near-compulsive need to let his eyeballs rest on paper.