Perhaps it is a human thing, to look upon such beauty and fail to encompass it.

For anyone who is: just keep writing. Keep reading. If you are meant to be a writer, a storyteller, it'll work itself out. You just keep feeding it your energy, and giving it that crucial chance to work itself out. By reading and writing.

Say yes, babe, or I'll spill you off over the Wall next time - got it?

I found that the only way I could control this sorrow was not to think of [it] at all, which was almost as painful as the loss itself.

It seems to me further, that it is very odd that fate should leave so careful a trail, and spend so little time preparing the one that must follow it.

The weak grey light that serves as harbinger of red and golden dawn faintly lit my window. I fumbled for a candle, found and lit it, and by its little light saw that the rose floating in the bowl was dying. It had already lost most of its petals, which floated on the water like tiny, un-seaworthy boats, deserted for safer craft. "Dear God," I said. "I must go back at once.

It's hard to look too grand when you're led by someone who looks like a pudding with legs.