You send me all these roses. Every time I think the last bouquet has arrived, finally, another turns up. I’m running out of vases. I didn’t know roses came in so many colors. You say they’re the perfect symbols of love because they have thorns and love is pain. I say life is pain, highness. Anyone who says differently is selling something. And you don’t get it. You say you love me, but you don’t speak my language. You don’t even realize I’m an orchid girl.

The circus itself is my personal ideal entertainment venue.

You prefer not to see the gears of the clock, as to better tell time.

"I am already married," she remarks to the empty air, twisting the ring on her right hand that covers an sold, distinctive scar.

I don;t think there's anything wrong with being a dreamer. There is not. But dreams have ways of turning into nightmares.

And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines.

I think looking forward will be better than looking back.