The survivor spoke to us though, or tried to. Mumbling through that matted brown beard of his, pale as death itself. I can__ say now if it was weakness from his wounds or what it was _ but we struggled to understand him. In fact we got nothing intelligible from him at all then. He seemed afraid, like any dying man probably would be, but he did seem more terrified than any dying man I__e seen before _ and I__e seen a few in my time. Let me tell you, Corsair or not, he grabbed whatever hand would hold his, and clenched it so tight his knuckles turned white! He kept fading out as we carried him on the stretcher board the medics brought with them. Looking back, I think he tried to warn us, poor bastard. He tried to tell us to leave him behind and go, but we wouldn__ listen. We thought we were better than the Corsairs, remember? We thought we would be all moral and upright and try to help him. __on__ say I didn__ warn you._ were the last words he said before losing consciousness. At least, those that we could make out. At the end of it all, he was right _ as it turned out, we couldn__ even help ourselves.

The hands of fate keep time on a heart-shaped clock.

Tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all. He had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it -- namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain.

When a writer falls in love with you - their very soul bursts open like a supernova brightly lighting up everything in its way.They will write spells on your skin and carve your name onto their bones and make you theirs.Their love bleeds through their fingers in the form of words hastily written on paper while their heart jumps inside their chest, unable to contain such impossible amount of feelings rushing over one another getting tangled, causing pain and joy and tears of sorrow and happiness all at the same time.The universe will fall from their parted lips when they say your name and whisper how much they love you. They will turn you into a priceless sculpture - carve you into a monument and make love to you - while making you their home, their sun, their moon, their stars, their whole world gathered into one small corporeal being made out of stars and love and infinity.When a writer falls in love with you they become a new separate universe quietly created by your words, brought to life by your touch, burning brightly as long as you whisper their name with all the love that you have inside you.

Although I write in English, and despite the fact that I__ from America, I consider myself an Armenian writer. The words I use are in English, the surroundings I write about are American, but the soul, which makes me write, is Armenian. This means I am an Armenian writer and deeply love the honor of being a part of the family of Armenian wrtiters.

Friendship marks a life even more deeply than love. Love risks degenerating into obsession, friendship is never anything but sharing.