-
When I walked down the streets, I asked myself, are these my people?, is this my hometown, am I who I am?
Azar Nafisi -
Perhaps if we saw what was ahead of us, and glimpsed the follies, and misfortunes that would befall us later on, we would all stay in our mother’s wombs, and then there would be nobody in the world but a great number of very fat, very irritated women.
Lemony Snicket -
Carefully laid plans aren’t always the best. Sometimes Plan B is the real dream come true.
S.J.D. Peterson -
I’ve learned to value failed conversations, missed connections, confusions. What remains is what’s unsaid, what’s underneath. Understanding on another level of being.
Anna Kamieńska -
People fall so in love with their pain, they can’t leave it behind. The same as the stories they tell. We trap ourselves.
Chuck Palahniuk -
Children bleed as easy as anyone else, don’t they? Why would they be spared? A child is nothing but a future enemy.
Brian McClellan -
The dead are selfish:
They make us cry, and they don’t care,
They stay quiet in the most inconvenient places,
They refuse to walk, and we have to carry them
On our backs to the tomb…Angel Gonzalez -
I always knew what I wanted to do, I just didn’t know I could do it.
Nina LaCour -
Stood in firelight, sweltering. Bloodstain on chest like map of violent new continent. Felt cleansed. Felt dark planet turn under my feet and knew what cats know that makes them scream like babies in night.
Looked at sky through smoke heavy with human fat and God was not there. The cold, suffocating dark goes on forever and we are alone. Live our lives, lacking anything better to do. Devise reason later. Born from oblivion; bear children, hell-bound as ourselves, go into oblivion. There is nothing else.
Existence is random. Has no pattern save what we imagine after staring at it for too long. No meaning save what we choose to impose. This rudderless world is not shaped by vague metaphysical forces. It is not God who kills the children. Not fate that butchers them or destiny that feeds them to the dogs. It’s us. Only us. Streets stank of fire. The void breathed hard on my heart, turning its illusions to ice, shattering them. Was reborn then, free to scrawl own design on this morally blank world.
Was Rorschach.
Does that answer your Questions, Doctor?
Alan Moore -
We are not always what we seem, and hardly ever what we dream.
Peter S. Beagle
