I love and hate this place because it is full of words.

They'd been standing like that for thirty seconds of forever.

Smile with instinct, then lick your wounds in the darkest of dark corners. Trace the scars back to your own fingers and remember them.

Or had she always loved him? It's likely. Restricted as she was from speaking, she wanted him to kiss her. She wanted him to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. Her mouth, her neck, her cheek. Her skin was empty for it, waiting.

It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.

Please believe me when I tell you that I picked up each soul that day as if it were newly born. I even kissed a few weary, poisoned cheeks. I listened to their last, gasping cries. Their vanishing words. I watched their love visions and freed them from their fear.

Do we spend most of our days trying to remember or to forget? Do we spend most of our time running towards or away from our lives?