Anja Doreen

“Stars, too, were time travelers. How many of those ancient points of light were the last echoes of suns now dead? How many had been born but their light not yet come this far? If all the suns but ours collapsed tonight, how many lifetimes would it take us to realize we were alone? I had always known the sky was full of mysteries—but not until now had I realized how full of them the earth was.”
― Ransom Riggs, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children

“It's not true that your life flashes before your eyes when you die. At least, not all of it. Some of your life might flash. Other portions of your life it might take you years and years to recall. That, I think, is the function of Hell: It's a place of remembering. Beyond that, the purpose of Hell is not so much to forget the details of our lives as it is to forgive them.”
― Chuck Palahniuk, Damned

“I find I think of myself not as a writer so much as someone who provides a gateway, a tangential route for readers to reach the circus again, if only in their minds, when they are unable to attend it physically, I relay it through printed words on crumpled newsprint, words that they can read again and again. returning to the circus whenever they wish, regardless of time of day or physical location. Transporting them at will.
When put that way, it sounds rather like magic, doesn't it? -Friedrick Thiessen, 1898"

Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you,
were all spirits, and
Are melted into air,
into thin air:
And, like the baseless
fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp'd tow'rs,
the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples,
the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit,
shall dissiolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind.
We are such stuff
As dreams are made on;
and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.

_Prosper, THE TEMPEST, ACT IV,
SCENE 1”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus

“Trapped in silence, Marco traces apologies and adorations across Celia's body with his tongue. Mutely expressing all the things he cannot speak aloud.
He finds other ways to tell her, his fingers leaving faint trails of ink in their wake. He savors every sound he elicits from her.
The entire room trembles as they come together.
And though there are a great many fragile objects contained within it, nothing breaks.”
― Erin Morgenstern, The Night Circus