There are patterns which emerge in one's life, circling and returning anew, an endless variation on a theme. So musicians say the greatest sonatas are composed; whether or not it is true, I do not know, but of a surety I have seen it emerge in the tapestry of my life.
I had begun to think my ripening body would wither untasted on the vine.
Clearly, Im drawn to characters with inner conflicts.
Fear and lies fester in darkness. The truth may wound, but it cuts clean.
For every victory there is a price.
Only insofar as you enjoy being sorry, my dear, which, while it is a considerable amount, occurs only after the fact, thus making it a singularly ineffective deterrent, yes?