Once her tongue has been taken and burned and turned to ash, once the ceremony is complete and her servitude as an acolyte officially begins, once her voice has been muted, then her ears awaken. Then the stories begin to come.
You don’t like choosing, do you? You don’t do.
He couldn’t have made up this much detail on a person. Imaginary ladies can’t order coffee at Starbucks, probably.
Freedom kept in sight but out of reach.
This is their world, starless and sacred.
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. It is surprising, but I do not mind a good surprise.
But most of the memories are stories.
All Hallows’ Eve is something special. The air itself crackles with mystery.
I would have written you, myself, if I could put down in words everything I want to say to you. A sea of ink would not be enough.
They are gods with lost myths, writing themselves new ones. Can you hear the buzzing yet?
Bailey fissa fuori dalla finestra, domandandosi di cosa sia fatto esattamente il crepuscolo.
Be careful what stories you tell yourself.
And so time goes as it should and events that were once fated to happen are left instead to chance, and Chance never falls in love with anything for long. But the world is strange and endings are not truly endings no matter how the stars might wish it so. Occasionally Fate can pull itself together again. And Time is always waiting.
La gente non fa caso a niente, a meno che tu non gliene dia una ragione. Anche se i capelli contribuiscono a renderci apparentemente estranei a un circo in bianco e nero.
A bit obsessive, somewhat unpredictable, but I suppose that is part and parcel of having an artistic temperament.
To have the whole world in one room. In one person. The universe condensed and intensified and burning, bright and alive and electric.
I have always been nocturnal” is Tsukiko’s only response, and she does not elaborate as to what twists of fate brought her to this spot at this time, but the smile that accompanies her cryptic sentiment is warm and contagious.
She keeps to herself. She reads more than anyone I have ever met. The Murray twins adore her. She has been nothing but kind to me. I have never seen her do a single thing out of the ordinary beyond when she performs.
And she likes having the space to herself, the stillness and the calm sweetened with the subdued scent of frozen flowers.
Drowning Ophelia made with gin and lemon and fennel syrup, served with a sprig of rosemary and a napkin with an appropriate Hamlet quote printed on it.
He tells her how he worries that none of it means anything. That none of it is important. That who he is, or who he thinks he is, is just a collection of references to other people’s art.