But just as the river is always at the door, so is the world always outside. And it is in the world that we have to live.

It's what you do to yourself when you go mad with rage. You have no idea how much you can hurt yourself with your own strength.

It's like a spell. It's so strong I can't fight it. Is love always like this?

The less people think of you, the more they will reveal to you or in your presence.

How was it possible for the world to be so beautiful and so cruel at the same time?

Death comes suddenly and life is fragile and brief. No one can alter this either by prayers or spells.

I am not made for despair