Happiness. What's that? I don't know. How can one be happy when one loves a demon?
She tasted for the first time honey-sweet and dangerous happiness: dangerous because, as she before long began to learn, precarious.
Ludens felt again that special curious anguish caused by glimpses of a happiness he would have felt if only things were different — which could be different, perhaps could easily be different — but somehow maddeningly were not.
I must stay with you, stay near you, do your will, or die.
Your best friends are in trouble and you say 'of course' and forget them instantly.
Perhaps it was a case of time overflowing.
Perhaps one could not live with such knowledge. One might die for it, or of it.
