[b]Neil Gaiman
For love is no part of the dreamworld. Love belongs to Desire, and Desire is always cruel.[/b]
Though not just in the Capital Letter World.
It is a fool’s prerogative to utter truths that no one else will speak.
Or: It is a fool’s prerogative to believe truths that no one else will utter.
Hell may have all the best composers, but heaven has all the best choreographers.
Among other things, let’s examine the implications of that. You know, for all practical purposes.
It occurs to me that the peculiarity of most things we think of as fragile is how tough they truly are. There were tricks we did with eggs, as children, to show how they were, in reality, tiny load-bearing marble halls; while the beat of the wings of a butterfly in the right place, we are told, can create a hurricane across an ocean. Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way. Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkable difficult to kill.
Of course that takes some of us to this: the human spirit.
Whatever that might possibly be.
Liberty, boomed Wednesday, as they walked to the car, is a bitch who must be bedded on a mattress of corpses.
And even then, he boomed louder, only in the best of all possible worlds.
His name is Marcus: he is four and a half and possesses that deep gravity and seriousness that only small children and mountain gorillas have ever been able to master.
An uberboy in the making.