You want to know what I truly look like? I'll help you out. Find yourself a mirror while I continue.

Just be patient, she told herself, and with the mounting pages, the strength of her writing fist grew.

for some reason, dying men always ask the question they know the answer to. perhaps it's so they can die being right.

Sometimes people are beautiful. Not in looks. Not in what they say. Just in what they are.

For a moment, I panic. It's that feeling of falling when you know without question, that you've lost control of your car, or made a mistake that's beyond repair. 'What do I do now?' I ask desperately. 'Tell me! What do I do now?' He remains calm. He looks at me closely and says, 'Keep living, Ed... It's only the pages that stop here.

I..." He struggled to answer. "When everything was quiet, I went up to the corridor and the curtain in the livingroom was open just a crack... I could see outside. I watched, only for a few seconds." He had not seen the outside world for twenty-two months. There was no anger or reproach. It was Papa who spoke. How did it look?" Max lifted his head, with great sorrow and great astonishment. "There were stars," he said. "They burned by eyes.

It's not a big thing, but I guess it's true--big things are often just small things that are noticed.