He loved more than anything to fly. His sole conflict was with gravity.
You could not believe what one sigh articulates. What one laugh creates.
Words will heal your heart. If you ever come to disregard everything I’ve told you, believe at least this much: your words and only your words will heal your heart.
Just a glance at the ragged mess around her fingernails communicated more than the lenghiest essays on the nature of distress.
Aside from recurrance, revision, and commensurate symbolic reference, echoes also reveal emptiness. Since objects always impede acoustic reflection, only empty places can create echoes of lasting clarity.
How do we remember this emptiness so in fullness we won’t forget?
Do you really think the munificence of the multiverse comes translatable for your little mind? Have you ever thought to consider all that you miss whenever you’re shown what is suited to your seeing?
How easily she finds the impossible in the ordinary.
Also remember, love inhabits more than just the heart and mind.
We did not just go to the stars. We became the stars.
Of course real horror does not depend upon the melodrama of shadows or even the conspiracies of night.
Navidson’s troubles might not have created the house, but they did ultimately shape the way he faced it.
Do not entrust your future to the limits of your stride.
Also remember, love inhabits more than just the heart and mind. If need be it can take shelter in a big toe.
Do we miss not only the past but every future the lost past describes? Is that just the nature of missing? All the lost might-have-beens? The certainty that those uncertain futures are gone? If we can’t embrace uncertainty do we miss the point of love?
He is a stem, a husk, barren and thin, withered by sun, erased by wind, emptied by seasons of dullness, marked by seconds of duty, scarred by regret only the faintest of lines dare to write out, which no one, not even him, can interpret anymore. People have told him a crow will reveal more than anything his face has to share.
Ever see yourself doing something in the past and no matter how many times you remember it you still want to scream stop, somehow redirect the action, reorder the present?
Love’s love in her blackest season.
Death, it turns out, is the mother of all conflicts.
The world only mattered because people lived there and sometimes, in spite of the pain, tragedy, and degradation, even managed to triumph there.