So then which do you pick; Where you’re safe, out of sight and yourself, but where everything’s wrong? Or where everything’s right and you know that you’ll never belong? And whichever you pick, do it quick, ‘cause you’re starting to stick to the steps of the palace!
I’ve hated every second of the last eighty years. Every bloody second. You know that? And you still wish to live? Do you not seek the respite of death? Are you crazy? Death is a mug’s game. I got so much to live for.
Some say the tragedy of Delirium is her knowledge that, despite being older than suns, older than gods, she is forever the youngest of the Endless, who do not measure time as we measure time, or see the worlds through mortal eyes.
It's too intimate, and forget the mold in the walls: this is the shit that impedes Newt's breathing, Hermann's supposed to be the one on exhale duty and he can't just stop like this, can't just look back when Newt looks at him.
Mother Courage drags her cart behind her; Brecht dragged his poems and plays behind him during a decade of havoc and ruin that drove him to the far corners of the world.
EDWARD. I’ll bandy with the barons and the earls, And I'll either die or live with Gaveston. GAVESTON. (Coming forward) I can no longer keep me from my lord.
You’ve observed all that. But you knew it from the start. I think you’re here for something else. And what might that be? Friendship. I think you’re lonely.
All alone, but still I hear their yearning. Through the dark, the moon, alone there, burning. The stars too, they tell of spring returning. And summer with another wind that no one yet has known.
Sorrow drips into your heart through a pinhole just like a faucet that leaks and there is comfort in the sound, but while you debate half-empty or half-full, it slowly rises: your love is gonna drown
I liked to think a lot of stuff about myself. ‘Being contrarian about everything isn’t offputting, it just demonstrates critical thinking.’ ‘It’s not weird that you still wear your hair in twin braids at your age.’ ‘No one can tell that you’re depressed.’
What if she had been telling the truth? What if I really was someone else? Someone beautiful and powerful. Someone buried alive and suffocating to death. Very far away, on the other side of the television screen.
Simone’s “Suzanne” sounds like someone she knows, someone to whom she’s told awful secrets while drunk on brown liquor. Simone breathes such life into the woman, she might as well be Simone’s own creation. Suzanne, meet Peaches.
