Kyle

“A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.”
― James Joyce, Dubliners

“How I miss wandering around with old souls,
Aimlessly moving from one place to another
How I miss all our dreams and our goals
And how we've lost ourselves to find each other

Seems like a playful game of hide-n-seek
But that's how we'll forever play this life
Loving and living the truth that we seek
Until embraced we find our way to strive

Gazing into strangers' eyes to find our soul mates,
Knowing we're so much closer than we thought.
Our heart keeps the light that forever radiates
Through all the darkness, 'til love is taught

And yet again we look into the skies,
We see the stars, the moon, that light
Missing our home beyond the nights
Living in love until the end of the fight.”
― Virgil Kalyana Mittata Iordache

“She had sculpted the mist, the way those who have no choice do. She had willed a life for the two of us in a new land.”
― Padma Lakshmi, Love, Loss, and What We Ate: A Memoir

“[H]e lay awake, dreading the dawn when he would have to say good-bye to the small universe he had built for himself over the years.”
― Carlos Ruiz Zafón, The Prince of Mist