because the hardest boss a man can ever have is himself.

The color white is the absence of memory.

Death was no less a miracle than birth.

I think everybody has experiences from time to time they can't explain. They are peculiarities. Usually we just dismiss them because they are uncomfortable to think about.

Thin clouds form, and the shadows lengthen out. They have no breadth, as summer shadows have; there are no leaves on the trees or fat clouds in the sky to make them thick. They are gaunt, mean shadows that bite the ground like teeth. As the sun nears the horizon, its benevolent yellow begins to deepen, to become infected, until it glares an angry inflamed orange. It throws a variegated glow over the horizon.

The world had moved on and all that was over, done before fairly begun.

And will I tell you that these three lived happily ever after? I will not, for no one ever does. But there was happiness. And they did live.