What a blessed truth to understand that, in the middle of all of our difficulties and calamities, we have a refuge.
Glory?. . . . Glory belongs to God alone.
As long as there is love and memory, there is no true loss.
He seemed to realize she was staring at him, because the cursing stopped. "You cut me," he said. His voice was pleasant. British. Very ordinary. He looked at his hand with critcal interest. "It might be fatal. " Tessa looked at him with wide eyes. "Are you the Magister?" He tilted his hand to the side. Blood ran down it, spattering the floor. "Dear me, massive blood loss. Death could be imminent.
Every heart has its own melody.
Life is a book and there are a thousand pages I have not yet read.
The more you try to crush your true nature, the more it will control you. Be what you are. No one who really loves you will stop.
I had to find meaning in it. So I go through this, I see all these homies die; I see all this terrible devastation, people sitting in prison. I've been saved from prison, from death, and from heroine addiction. What am I going to do with that?
But then, as far as I know, as far as I've studied or heard or picked up, it seems that this type of thing is a curse against mankind.
My mother is the source of my unease in the world and thus the only person who can make me feel at home in the world.
Images break with a small ping, their destruction is as wonderful as their being, they are essentially instruments of torture exploding through the individual's calloused capacity to feel undifferentiated emotions full of longing and dissatisfaction and monumentality.