Michael Mireles

“He'd not have thought the value of the smallest thing predicated on the world to come.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

“Once there were brook trout in the streams in the mountains. You could see them standing in the amber current where the white edges of their fins wimpled softly in the flow. They smelled of moss in your hand. Polished and muscular and torsional. On their backs were vermiculate patterns that were maps of the world in its becoming. Maps and mazes. Of a thing which could not be put back. Not be made right again. In the deep glens where they lived all things were older than man and they hummed of mystery.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

“The blackness he woke to on those nights was sightless and impenetrable. A blackness to hurt your ears with listening.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road

“He thought each memory recalled must do some violence to its origins.”
― Cormac McCarthy, The Road