Nor Time, nor Place, nor Chance, nor Death can bow/my least desires unto the least remove
One of the best and the most painful things about time traveling has been the opportunity to see my mother alive.
Right now we are here, and nothing can mar our perfection, or steal the joy of this perfect moment.
But I don't want to just believe it, I want it to be true.
I’m suicidal just thinking about it.
Why has he gone where I cannot follow?
Why do you have a cigarette lighter in your glove compartment? her husband, Jack, asked her. I'm bored with knitting. I've taken up arson
That is what madness is, isn't it? All the wheels fly off the bus and things don't make sense any more. Or rather, they do, but it's not a kind of sense anyone else can understand.
He made the boxes because he was lonely. He didn't have anyone to love, and he made the boxes so he could love them, and so people would know that he existed, and because birds are free and the boxes...
I want to tell you again, I love you. Our love has been the thread through the labyrinth, the net under the high-wire walker, the only real thing in this life of mine that I could ever trust. Tonight...
I’m curious about things that people aren’t supposed to see—so, for example, I liked going to the British Museum, but I would like it better if I could go into all the offices and storage rooms, I wan...
Now you're making me self-conscious. I feel like every time I blow my nose it's a historic event.Well, it is.She rolls her eyes. What's the opposite of determinism? Chaos.Oh. I don't think I like that...
The best love is the kind that weakens the soul, that makes us reach for more. That plants a fire in our hearts and brings peace to our minds.
Home sweet home. No place like home. Take me home, country roads. Home is where the heart is. But my heart is here. So I must be home. Clare sighs, turns her head, and is quiet. Hi, honey. I'm home. I...
…she smiles in an exhausted but warm sort of way, as though she is a brilliant sun in some other galaxy
Time is nothing - Henry's Letter to Claire
I feel like a pink worm in the core of this green room, as though I have eaten my way in and should be working on becoming a butterfly, or something. I’m not real awake, here, at the moment. I hear so...
«Io vorrei Dio. Si può?»Mi sento come un cretino. «Certo che si può. È quello che credi tu.»«Però io non voglio soltanto crederci. Voglio che sia vero.»
Time is nothing.
Clock time is our bank manager, tax collector, police inspector; this inner time is our wife.
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