I hadn't been "possessed", after all. Not by an angel or a demon. Maybe there were aspects of both inside me, but was the one who chose which to let out.
I am starting to think that maybe memories are like this dessert. I eat it, and it becomes a part of me, whether I remember it later or not.
Though the funny thing about never being asked for anything is that after a while you start to feel like maybe you don’t have anything worth giving.
Some man would come to her room. Maybe she would hesitate, and he'd grab her, pin her to the mattress, force her to cooperate.
Maybe that was how I found comfort just then, even with him being so far away. By remembering the flavor of his words.
Art is just an expression. An expression isn't the same as an act, as much as it sometimes feels that way.
I don't want Sydney ever to feel like my second choice, when I know in my heart that she's the right choice. The only choice.
I've done nothing for the past five years but try to be the hero who protects her. The problem? Heroines don't need protecting.
Maybe freedom means defining yourself any way you want to be.
I never realised how powerful desire could be. It consumes every part of you, enhancing your senses by a million.
Maybe our marriage is bound to be a fight, but it will have its compensations. Fights that end in bed have their own singular excitement, remember.
You stand for what is right- for the patient and the staff. Pressures of work may down you, maybe bent but not broken.
She wanted something else, something different, something more. Passion and romance, perhaps, or maybe quiet conversations in candlelit rooms, or perhaps something as simple as not being second.
So we gave up. I'd finally had enough of chasing after a ghost who did not want to be seen. We'd failed, maybe, but some mysteries aren't meant to be solved.
They say marriages work better if you don't know the person too well. Maybe we should stop writing each other posthaste.
... the Iroquois take dreams very seriously. They see them as the secret wishes of the soul--the heart's desire, so to speak. Not all dreams, maybe, but the important ones. [p.254]
Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.
Maybe I could dole out the truth in tiny pieces that, once assembled, would make a picture that resembled a reality in which I hadn’t done anything wrong.
What he was scared of was not that maybe she was a creature who survived by drinking other people's blood. No, it was that she might push him away.
animals never worry about Heaven or Hell. neither do I. maybe that's why we get along
I felt alone on the planet, drifting through the cosmos. With both hands I reached out to the night. There was no answer. Or maybe I just couldn't hear it.
