I hope that the epitaph of the human race when the world ends will be: Here perished
a species which lived to tell stories.
We tell stories to strangers to ingratiate ourselves, stories to lovers to better adhere us skin to skin, stories in our heads to banish the demons. When we tell truth, often we are callous; when we tell lies, often we are kind. Through it all, we tell stories, and we own an uncanny knack for the task.
Hope, I've discovered, is a sad nuisance. Hope is a horse with a broken leg.
And in a way I have always thought that words are alive a little, for they can whisper sweet nothings and roar dragon flame with equal efficiency.
Being brave and being alone aren't the same thing.
Though I no longer presumed to have a conscience, I have never once lacked feelings.
Some tragedies bind us, as lies do; they are ropes braided of hurt and bitterness, and you cannot ever fully understand how pinioned you are until the ties are loosened.