Better to have a single perfect diamond than a sack of flawed stones.

But dreams have ways of turning into nightmares.

I suppose there will never be a lack of things to say, of stories to be told and shared.

The funeral is a quiet one, despite the number of mourners present. There are no sobs or flailing handkerchiefs. There is a smattering of color amongst the sea of traditional black. Even the light rain cannot push it down into the realms of despair. It rests instead in a space of thoughtful melancholy.

A woman I should like to think I know rather well and a woman I had always considered a mystery, are in fact the same person.

Why haven’t you asked me how I do my tricks?” Celia asks, once they have reached the point where she is certain he is not simply being polite about the matter. “Because I do not wish to know,” he says. “I prefer to remain unenlightened, to better remain in the dark.

Sometimes I write what I can't paint, and I paint what I can't write. I use a different part of the brain.