Let Me Stay Here," He Said. "there

Her Laugh Was Sad And Taciturn, Seemingly Detached From Any Feeling Of The Moment, Like Something She Kept In The Cupboard And Took Out Only When She Had To, Using It With No Feeling Of Ownership, As If The Infrequency Of Her Smiles Had Made Her Forget The Normal Way To Use Them.

Between The Covers Of The Books That No One Had Ever Read Again, In The Old Parchments Damaged By Dampness, A Livid Flower Had Prospered, And In The Air That Had Been The Purest And Brightest In The House An Unbearable Smell Of Rotten Memories Floated.

There [is] No Innocence More Dangerous Than The Innocence Of Age.

That's Maybe The Reason He Does So Many Things So That He Will Not Have To Think .

Humanity, Like Armies In The Field, Advances At The Speed Of The Slowest.