He sat by her, watching every gesture she made, as if he would paint her portrait afterward.
I haven't changed. Something's happened to me, that's all.
The soul is a magician. Only living flesh hampers it.
She looked, and a scarlet butterfly flew away from her, away down the length of the tower, and then another, another, an unraveling scarf of butterflies like winged blood.
When I am fascinated by something, I like to play with it.
I'm not very good at being alive. Sometimes I despair of ever mastering it, getting it right. When I'm old, perhaps.