Only the ship is made of books, its sails thousands of overlapping pages, and the sea it floats upon is dark black ink.
And there are never really endings, happy or otherwise. Things keep going on, they overlap and blur, your story is part of your sister’s story is part of many other stories, and there is no telling where any of them may lead.
Follow your dreams Bailey. Be they Harvard or somehing else entirely. No matter what that father of yours says, or how loudly he might say it. He forgets that he was someone’s dream once, himself.
To be rather than to seem.
But you built me dreams instead.
Each of them always gravitating toward the other. Yet still they do not touch.
If she were gone I would be nothing. You should think better of yourself than to settle for that.
Secrets have power, and that power diminishes when they are shared, so they are best kept and kept well. Sharing secrets, real secrets, important ones, with even one other person, will change them.
Trespassers Will Be Exsanguinated.
I cannot let a place that is so important to so many people fade away. Something that is wonder and comfort and mystery all together that they have nowhere else. If you had that, wouldn’t you want to keep it?
Where do you get your ideas? people ask. Sometimes they’re at the bottoms of cups of tea. Sometimes they’re lurking in my shower. Sometimes they’re waiting patiently in glass cases in museums.
I have you here, all around me. I sit in the Ice Garden to get a hint of this, this way that you make me feel. I felt it even before I knew who you were, and every time I think it could not possibly get any stronger, it does.
The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.
Unusual yet beautiful. Provocative while remaining elegant.
The sensation reminds him of the first snow of winter, for those first few hours when everything is blanketed in white, soft and quiet.
And there are really never endings, happy or otherwise.
All empires fall eventually. It is the way of things.
I have had affairs that lasted decades and others that lasted for hours. I have loved princesses and peasants. And I suppose they loved me, each in their way.
A woman I should like to think I know rather well and a woman I had always considered a mystery, are in fact the same person.
And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines.