A Loves C

Her anger at him did not make the loss of his company any easier to bear: you always miss the person who breaks your heart.

She could tell he was flattered by that: he was the type of man who wanted to be invited to join every club there was. Even hers.

My cabin only has a bathtub, and washing long hair in the tub is the shits.

But no matter how peculiar it sounds I still have this feeling that there is something in him that could change a lot of situations and straighten them out. And there is one point in a thing like this - as long as I feel this way, in a sense it is true.

And, as a writer, or as a storyteller, try to tell the stories that only you can tell. Try to tell the stories that you cannot help telling, the stories you would be telling yourself if you have no audience to listen. The ones that reveal a little too much about you to the world.

If something happened to you, I would have to be put down. I would become an animal.

...like we are still the people we once promised to be.

When you are old and grey and full of sleep, And nodding by the fire, take down this book, And slowly read, and dream of the soft look Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; How many loved your moments of glad grace, And loved your beauty with love false or true, But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face; And bending down beside the glowing bars, Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled And paced upon the mountains overhead And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

All my beautiful pieces I keep like in a museum, because I don't want them ruin somehow by the stink or casualness of my body.

How?" my grandfather asked. "What would you have done?" "Tell someone." "What if everyone you could tell already knew?

My grandfather cocked his head. "Is the ability to trust others a virtue or a fault, Nicholas?

People speeding by are going to jobs they dislike. They like to arrive early so they can tell their family how hard they work even though there is no work to do.

Live with Lou," says her father. "He has money. Lou will take care of you." "But those two things aren't connected," says Birdie.

Well, says Lou, "no one forced you to be Miss Independence Day parade, now did they.

Everything, almost, he throws out on the way up the stairs, little trash cans on the landings like midget armored knights.

She'd never delivered, Winston thought, on the promise of her hair and charm and Facebook profile.