Book: Ink blood

All is the game play, coined Fenolio, kept repeating to himself Mo, passing along the silver columns. - If only she hadn't seemed so real!..

You know what's weird? - said Maggie. Even if I could, this minute, to go back, I wouldn't do it. Ridiculous, isn't it? Like I'm always here and want to be here. Why? After all, it's awful!
Awful, but prerasno, - said Farid.

- All worlds are cruel, he said. - The one from which I come from, and the one from which you and this. In your world cruelty is just not so visible, it is hidden, but it's there too.

If I knew where poems come, I'd go back there.

What is the point of having a voice if no one can hear you?

The dead bring bad dreams. They are whispering all sorts of horrors, and then fall to your chest listening to your heart. It seems then that they are alive again!

Reality is a fragile thing.

Man loses what he loves. This is the death.

Words good for nothing. Yes, sometimes they sound great, but at the right moment leave you in the lurch. The right words will never pick up, and where to find them? It is the heart that Nemo-like fish, no matter how hard the language, trying to give his speech.

Why sad stories often so beautiful? In life it is not.

It's really weird that if a book read a few times, it becomes much thicker? Like whenever you read something between the pages. Feelings, thoughts, sounds, smells... And when you many years later again leaf through the book, you find yourself a little younger, a little like now that the book kept you safe between the pages like a pressed flower - together of the familiar and the alien.

It is strange that the heart does not stop when it hurt so much.