My lord. It is too much, and not enough

I preferred a hard truth to a well-meant lie.

We are meant to taste of life ... and drink the cup of it to the dregs, bitter and sweet alike.

Night breeds its own sort of anticipation.

Sidonie, I know you don't remember it, but you once promised to trust me beyond all reason. And I swear to you that all that I am, all that I possess, including this gem-stone, is yours. I need you. I can't do this alone. Forget your memories. Look into your heart. And if you can find somewhere there, some lingering spark of trust that owes naught to reason, I beg you to speak the word written here.

I had begun to think my ripening body would wither untasted on the vine.

It's the same questions we ask of our existence, and the answer is always the same. The mystery lies not in the question nor the answer, but in the asking and answering themselves, over and over again, and the end is engendered in the beginning.