His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.

She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.

Doors lead to things and I've never met one I haven't wanted to open.

It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.

Better to lose oneself in action than to wither in despair.

But history is a faithless teller whose cruel recourse to hindsight makes fools of its actors.

A girl expecting rescue never learns to save herself. Even with the means, she will find her courage wanting.