And I will wonder forever if I'll see you again, or for six days, or for eight months, or for the rest of my horrible, beautiful life. And other things will happen to me that are just as amazing and lovely and traumatizing as you have been, and I will tell you none of them. Maybe. And sometimes I will try to stop speculating the future out of ( Read more... )

 "She reminded me of a certain kind of rose she grew in the garden, called Pristine. It was white with a trace of pink around the outside, and when you picked it, the petals all fell off."

- White Oleander, Janet Fitch 

It is an illusion that youth is happy, an illusion of those who have lost it; but the young know they are wretched, for they are full of the fruitless ideals which have been instilled into them, and each time they come in contact with the real they are bruised and wounded. It looks as if they were victims of a conspiracy; for the books they read, ( Read more... )

There is a place where time stands still. Raindrops hang motionless in air. Pendulums of clocks float mid-swing. Dogs raise their muzzles in silent howls. Pedestrians are frozen on the dusty streets, their legs cocked as if held by strings. The aromas of dates, mangoes, coriander, cumin are suspended in space.

As a traveler approaches this place ( Read more... )