Home they brought her warrior dead: She nor swooned, nor uttered cry: All her maidens, watching, said, 'She must weep or she will die.' Then they praised him, soft and low, Called him worthy to be loved, Truest friend and noblest foe; Yet she neither spoke nor moved. Stole a maiden from her place, Lightly to the warrior stepped, Took the face-cloth from the face; Yet she neither moved nor wept. Rose a nurse of ninety years, Set his child upon her knee- Like summer tempest came her tears- 'Sweet my child, I live for thee.' -Alfred Lord Tennyson

A young man who doesn't have the foresight to seek out the girl he wants to be with and actively pursue her, doesn't deserve her.

Okay. So, apparently I find burly Indian men attractive. What's wrong with that?

And yes, I'll admit, I am jealous. I'm jealous of every minute you spend with him, of every concerned expression you send his way, of every tear shed, of every glance, every touch, and every thought. I want to rip him to pieces and purge him from your mind and from your heart. But I can't.

One's enemy is often the best teacher of tolerance.

How do I get past my fears? Make a life for myself? Risk loving someone? When death is all that waits for you, what's the point in trying to have a life?

A tiger only needs three things to be comfortable. Lots of food, sleep, and...actually, no it's just those two things.