Man hovers between Paradise and the Pit.

Love- however doomed, had the capacity to attach bouys to the soul.

Obviously, not everybody who dies becomes a ghost, otherwise those who are psychic would be aware of shouldering through deep crowds of assorted shades every time they moved.

The scar, and her indifference to it, did something extraordinary for her, just as damage to some art object threw into relief how beautiful it had once been, tarnishing and tempering her face with the reminder of what humanity did to lovely things and how they bore it.

Truth travels slowly and gets weaker as it goes. Suitable lies are strong and run faster.

Tomorrows were full of awful things. Today, now, was the essential.

To what do you not drive human hearts, cursed for craving gold!