This isn't a watercolor, it's a mural.

True love comes quietly, without banners or flashing lights. If you hear bells, get your ears checked.

The ‘equilibrium’ that people see in me is really an illusion. I am as flawed as anyone. It’s only that I seem to have the knack of hiding.

Something may have been lost in translation, but it certainly wasn't love

Her handwriting was curious — small sharp little letters with no capitals (who did she think she was, e. e. cummings?).

What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?" I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ. "Sonovabitch." "To his face?" she asked. "I never see his face." "He wears a mask?" "In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.

Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living - or that either can be fatal?