And though I’ve lived to be an old man with my very own share of happiness for all the mess I made, I still judge every joyous moment, every victory and revelation against those few...
It’s the pointless things that give your life meaning. Friendship, Compassion, Art, Love. All of them are pointless. But, they’re what keeps life from being meaningless.
And the sun on the wall of her room, the block of sun with all the tiny flying things in it. When she was little she thought they were the souls of dead insects, still...
She was still glad she looked like Scully. He wasn’t pretty either, but pretty people weren’t the kind you need. Pretty people saw themselves in the mirror and were either too happy or too sad....
It’s how I fill the time when nothing’s happening. Thinking too much, flirting with melancholy.
…the past is in us, and not behind us. Things are never over.
Old Scully, who according to Jennifer, hadn’t the imagination to think the worst. Something she said once, as though neurosis was an artform.
The whole underneath of Paris was an ant nest, Metro tunnels, sewer shafts, catacombs, mines, cemeteries. She’d been down in the city of bones where skulls and femurs rose in yellowing walls. Right down there,...
He was free and unencumbered. Which is to say alone and unemployed.
I have never been a violent man. Just a little creepy, it seems.
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