Thy only authentic ending is the one provided here: John and Mary die, John and Mary die, John and Mary die.
I feel like the word shatter.
Every night when I go to bed I think, In the morning I will wake up in my own house and things will be back the way they were. It hasn’t happened this morning, either.
Moira was like an elevator with open sides. She made us dizzy.
It was like being in an elevator cut loose at the top. Falling, falling, and not knowing when you will hit.
Because you may think a bed is a peaceful thing, Sir, and to you it may mean rest and comfort and a good night’s sleep. But it isn’t so for everyone; and there are many dangerous things that may take place in a bed.
For if the world treats you well, Sir, you come to believe you are deserving of it.
But my dreaming self refuses to be consoled. It continues to wander, aimless, homeless, alone. It cannot be convinced of its safety by any evidence drawn from my waking life.
I stand on the corner, pretending I am a tree.
It’s his word against the Commander’s, unless he wants to head a posse. Kick in the door, and what did I tell you? Caught in the act, sinfully Scrabbling. Quick, eat those words.
He stops, looks up at this window, and I can see the white oblong of his face. We look at each other. I have no rose to toss, he has no lute. But it’s the same kind of hunger.
That is what you have to do before you kill, I thought. You have to create an it, where none was before.
I am not your justification for existence.
Come away with me, he said, we will live on a desert island. I said, I am a desert island. It was not what he had in mind.
Fatigue is here, in my body, in my legs and eyes. That is what gets you in the end. Faith is only a word, embroidered.
Then sail, my fine lady, on the billowing wave – The water below is as dark as the grave, And maybe you’ll sink in your little blue boat – It’s hope, and hope only, that keeps us afloat.
In my dreams of this city I am always lost.
At moments like this I envy those who have found a safe haven in which to bestow their hearts; or perhaps I envy them for having a heart to bestow. I often feel that I myself am without one, and possess in its stead merely a heart shaped stone.
They seemed to be able to choose. We seemed to be able to choose, then. We were a society dying of too much choice.
The moment of betrayal is the worst, the moment when you know beyond any doubt that you’ve been betrayed: that some other human being has wished you that much evil.