In many ways, love and death are the same. They are the inevitable consequences of living. Both are always on the periphery, waiting in the darkness of the wings. Until, on cue, they come when least expected. You give yourself to them fully, for you cannot help but to surrender every part of your being as a sacrifice. When laid bare, on their perfumed altars of flowers and songs, you finally see your blinding reflection in the bright gleam of the blade as it descends, sometimes longed for, sometimes feared, but always misunderstood—though one may, in time, understand death, but never understand love.
—  Adam Stanley  All My Sins Remembered
But if I can just make it until morning, I know the light will save me. I know it, because the sun on your face can change everything. Even the faintest, and softest glimmer can save you from the darkest parts of yourself, satisfying a primordial need for light that must be leftover from our former, simpler lives, when we survived through photosynthesis.
— 

Adam Stanley  All My Sins Remembered

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"I barely know you, she says, voice heavy with sleep. I don’t know your favourite color or how you like your coffee. What keeps you up at night or the lullabies that sing you to sleep. I don’t know a thing about the first girl you loved, why you stopped loving her or why you still do.

I don’t know how many millions of cells you are made of and if they have any idea they are part of something so beautiful and unimaginably perfect.

I may not have a clue about any of these things, but this—she places her hand on his chest—this I know.”

—from Lullabies by Lang Leav

As she stood by the window, gazing at herself in the mirror, the early afternoon sun filled the room with a golden mist, in which dust motes danced and cavorted like birds suspended from strings, giving the atmosphere in the room a solidity that seemed to slow down all movement and time. As if she were living in an old photograph, trapped in sepia, held captive not solely by time or reality, but existing in a place that was somewhere in between what is, and what might have been, she was like a specimen kept in a jar to be studied, carefully observed through glass in order to discover how she had lived, how she had died, and most importantly, how she had managed to survive for so long in such a hostile environment.

                                 ~~adam stanley  Still Life With Plastic Roses

Only trees and more trees and plenty of blue sky. And you could laugh, Sally. You could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes and doesn’t like you. You could close your eyes and you wouldn’t have to worry what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you’re strange because you like to dream and dream. And no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted, all you wanted, Sally, was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy.
—  Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street
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