I am so very tired of the romance of the dead girl. Aren’t you?
This person is a place Zachary could lose himself in, and never wish to be found.
The breaking is the easy part. The pulling back together is the problem.
Perhaps the book will act like some sort of beacon and draw whatever or whoever it is he’s looking for to him. He believes in books, he thinks as he leaves the room. That much he knows for sure.
Be brave,” she says. “Be bold. Be loud. Never change for anyone but yourself. Any soul worth their star-stuff will take the whole package as is and however it grows. Don’t waste your time on anyone who doesn’t believe you when you tell them how you feel. On that Tuesday in September when you think you have no one to talk to you call me, okay? I’ll be waiting by the phone. And drive the speed limit around Buffalo.
It’s never too late to change what you are, it took me a long time to figure that out.
What’s the difference between a door and a cage? Between not yet and too late?
You are words on paper... Be careful what stories you tell yourself.
As soon as there’s an unquestionable truth there’s no longer a myth.
Real places are never captured in words. There is always more.
It’s too normal. It’s disconcerting and making him dizzy and maybe once you go to wonderland you’re supposed to stay there because nothing will ever be the same in the real world, in the other world, afterward.
These things happened. Sometimes it might sound weird but sometimes life is like that. Sometimes life gets weird. You can try to ignore it or you can see where weird takes you.
He finds himself wishing the proper people to talk to would light up or have hovering indicator arrows over their heads or dialogue options to choose from.
The space Dorian enters is the antithesis of what he has left, warm brightness erasing the dark cold. A large open hall filled with firelight and books, dark wood beams and windows covered in frost. It smells of spiced wine and baking bread. It is comforting in a way that defies words. It feels like a hug, if a hug were a place.
I have spent a great deal of my life struggling to keep myself in control. To know myself inside and out, everything In perfect order. I lose that when I’m with you. That frightens me, and it frightens me how much I like it. How tempting it is to lose myself in you. To let it go. To let you save me from breaking chandeliers rather than constantly worrying about it, myself.
He sits at the bar, feeling like a failure and yet overwhelmed by all that has happened as he attempts to catalogue the entire evening. Drank rosemary for remembrance. Looked for a cat. Danced with the king of the wild things. Excellent-smelling man told me a story in the dark. Cat found me.
I felt like we were right at that place where you go from being regular friends to help-you-move-dead-bodies friends but we weren’t quite there yet, like we needed to do one more side quest together and earn a few more mutual approval points and then it would be something a little more comfortable, but we hadn’t figured out our friendship dynamic entirely.
It is not the way of cats to interfere with fate.
It is part of who I was, who I am, and who I will be.
Look around you, he says, waving a hand at the surrounding tables. Not a one of them even has an inkling of the things that are possible in this world, and what’s worse is that none of them would listen if you attempted to enlighten them. They want to believe that magic is nothing but clever deception, because to think it real would keep them up at night, afraid of their own existence.