Over and over, we start our own tales, compose our own stories, whether our lives are short or long. Until at last all our beginnings come down to just one end, and the tale of who we are is done.

Even the most straightforward of paths could turn out to be more complicated than it seemd at first.

Oswald: "All your life" Aurore: "What?" Oswald: "All your life, isn't that what you wanted to know? How long I loved you?" Aurore: "Well, yes, I suppose I did, but that wasn't what I was going to ask just now." Oswald: "I tell you I've loved you since the day you were born, and you tell me you want to know something else. There's no one quite like you, is there, Aurore?

There is a tale...It tells of the days when a blight hung over our land. Nothing prospered. Nothing flourished. Not even zucchini would grow.

Yet even the brightest of sunrises must come to an end.

My playing had called to another human being at last. Surely, she could be no other than my own true love. Slowly, I got to my feet. Speak to me, I thought. And as if she'd heard me, the young woman's lips parted and she spoke thus: Have you lost your mind?

All of us show many faces to the world. No one shows her true face all of the time. To do that would be dangerous, for what is seen can also be known.