I hear the fear and hope fighting in my voice.
Kek finds sun when the sky is dark.
But everyone needs to hope.
If you’re not afraid, you’re a fool. If you are afraid, even scared to death, and keep your head? That is called courage.
I’ve never asked for a promise before, because promises are forever, and forever is an unusually long time.
She seemed beautiful to me. Is that strange? I suppose it is. But there is a compelling beauty in the sight of someone seemingly so small and yet so dangerous.
The way I understand things, it’s like this. We live on a lonely ball called Earth, and humans have basically been throwing it against the wall for so long that the poor ol’ ball is falling apart.
Oh, the things I wanted to say to those two! I wanted to tell them that friendship doesn’t have to be hard. That sometimes we let the world make it hard.” -Red.
A good zoo is how humans make amends.
Those are the stars that will guide my path home.
Memories are precious,” Stella adds. “They help tell us who we are.
Photosynthesize.
I guess none of us will get through this without some terrible sin. This will be mine.
I’d broken the rule because I wanted something. I wanted to matter. I wanted to do something meaningful before I died.
But that’s how it is when you love life. And I could accept that if my time had come, it had come. After a life as fine as mine, who was I to complain?
I’m picky. Not so much about looks, although even there I’m kind of picky. It’s more that I can’t pretend some guy is interesting when he’s not. If he’s immature, I’ll probably tell him so. Within five minutes of knowing him. And if he looks ridiculous dressed up like some wannabe, I’ll probably say that, too, or more likely just steer clear of him.
But even though I draw the same things over and over again, I never get bored with my art. When I’m drawing, that’s all I think about. I don’t think about where I am, about yesterday or tomorrow. I just move my crayons across the paper.
I think I’ve always been an artist. Even as a baby, still clinging to my mother, I had an artist’s eye. I saw shapes in the clouds, and sculptures in the tumbled stones at the bottom of a stream. I grabbed at colors – the crimson flower just out of reach, the ebony bird streaking past.
Stella is a mountain. Next to her I am a rock, and Bob is a grain of sand.
Maybe brave for a mouse is different from brave for me or brave for you.