We are all anthologies. We are each thousands of pages long, filled with fairy tales and poetry, mysteries and tragedy, forgotten stories in the back no one will ever read.
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None of it is as crucial as you think, but that makes it no less vital.
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Life does not belong to you. It is the apartment you rent.
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Small opportunities are the beginnings of great enterprises. You are the architect of your fortune. Big journeys begin with a single step.
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You’re mistaking love for perfection,” I said. “Real love when it’s there? It’s just there. It’s a metal folding chair.
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We knew that nothing would ever be the same, that youth was here and nearly gone already, that love was fragile and death was real.
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An unseen brave new world sits before you. Every. Single. Day. What are you going to do about it?
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The body shuts down when it’s too sad
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Time does not travel in a straight line. It bends and barrels across tunnels and bridges. It speeds up. Slows down. It even derails.