[b]Neil Gaiman
But the path to her death, heartbeat by heartbeat, would be inevitable.[/b]
Thump by thump by thump.
The young woman was crying, in the way that grownups cry, keeping it inside as much as they can, and hating it when it still pushes out at the edges, making them ugly and funny-looking on the way.
Like so much else beyond our control.
Religions are, by definition, metaphors, after all: God is a dream, a hope, a woman, an ironist, a father, a city, a house of many rooms, a watchmaker who left his prize chronometer in the desert, someone who loves you — even, perhaps, against all evidence, a celestial being whose only interest is to make sure your football team, army, business, or marriage thrives, prospers, and triumphs over all opposition.
Let’s pin this down.
If you can’t eat it, drink it, smoke it, or snort it…then fuck it!
You know, before it fucks you.
We were expecting to see you at the market.
Yes. Well. Some people thought I was dead. I was forced to keep a low profile.
Why . . . why did some people think you were dead?
The marquis looked at Richard with eyes that had seen too much and gone too far. Because they killed me.
They’ll get him next time.
He entertained these thoughts awkwardly, as a man entertains unexpected guests. Then, as he reached his objective, he pushed these thoughts away, as a man apologizes to his guests, and leaves them, muttering something about a prior engagement.
Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t.