Most of us can't help but live as though we've got two lives to live, one is the
mockup, the other the finished version, and then there are all those versions in between.
We rip out so much of ourselves to be cured of things faster than we should that we go bankrupt by the age of thirty and have less to offer each time we start with someone new. But to feel nothing so as not to feel anything - what a waste!
We had the stars, you and I. And this is given once only.
He came. He left. Nothing else had changed. I had not changed. The world hadn't changed. Yet nothing would be the same. All that remains is dreammaking and strange remembrance.
People who read are hiders. They hide who they are. People who hide don’t always like who they are.
Is it better to speak or die?
And on that evening when we grow older still we'll speak about these two young men as though they were two strangers we met on the train and whom we admire and want to help along. And we'll want to call it envy, because to call it regret would break our hearts.