It was in their friendship they just wanted to run forever, shadow and shadow.

He glanced back at the wall. How like a mirror, too, her face. Impossible; for how many people did you know who reflected your own light to you? People were more often--he searched for a simile, found one in his work--torches, blazing away until they whiffed out. How rarely did other people's faces take of you and throw back to you your own expression, your own innermost trembling thought?

Treasure this day and Treasure yourself, truly, neither will ever happen again.

I don't try to describe the future. I try to prevent it.

The ability to fantasize is the ability to survive, and the ability to fantasize is the ability to grow

For these beings, fall is ever the normal season, the only weather, there be no choice beyond. Where do they come from? The dust. Where do they go? The grave. Does blood stir their veins? No: the night wind. What ticks in their head? The worm. What speaks from their mouth? The toad. What sees from their eye? The snake. What hears with their ear? The abyss between the stars. They sift the human storm for souls, eat flesh of reason, fill tombs with sinners. They frenzy forth. Such are the autumn people.

But you can't make people listen. They have to come round in their own time, wondering what happened and why the world blew up around them. It can't last.