If I am an angel, paint me with black wings.

Wasn't it his right to listen to opera, read poetry and adventure novels, go to Europe every couple of months for some reason or another, and drive his Porsche over the speed limit until he found out who he was?

You are alone when something like this happens. Doesn't matter how many people love you and want to help you. You are alone. When Marchent died, she was alone.

I hear the birds singing. Listen. I hear them in their cage. The others-all our kind who know of her-they think of her as heartless, but she wasn't heartless. She was only aware of things which I didn't learn till so many decades had passed. She knew secrets that only suffering can teach.

We breathe the light, we breathe the music, we breathe the moment as it passes through us.

I think to feel this happy is to be miserable, to feel this much satisfaction is to burn.

Merciful death. How you love your precious guilt