We're not punished for our sins, lad. We're punished by them.

The greenest of pastures are right here on earth.

The King walks. He nods. His glance is like God's touch - under it all things spring to life. A wave of his hand and a hundred musicians tear into the Handel, making a sound you've never heard before, and never will again. A sound that goes through you, through flesh and bone, and reorders the very beat of your heart.

There is a ghost here. A lonely, heartbroken spirit. The ghost of everything that could've been and never was.

Only the hopeless love God.

Because beautiful things never last. Not roses nor snow… And not fireworks, either

On those nights, the words were for me alone. They came up unbidden from my heart. They spilled over my tongue and spilled out my mouth. And because of them, I, who was nothing and nobody, was a prince of Denmark, a maid of Verona, a queen of Egypt. I was a sour misanthrope, a beetling hypocrite, a conjurer's daughter, a mad and murderous king.