If I can keep writing just one good page a day, I will have 15 published novels in my expected lifetime. Tick, tick, tick...

There was an ocean above us, held in by a thin sac that might rupture and let down a flood at any second.

Adults are always like that, They only see what they want to see, As such, I am disapointed in them, but... That's convenient for me. - Fujisawa Ayana

Spring, if it lingers more than a week beyond its span, starts to hunger for summer to end the days of perpetual promise. Summer in its turn soon begins to sweat for something to quench its heat, and the mellowest of autumns will tire of gentility at last, and ache for a quick sharp frost to kill its fruitfulness. Even winter _ the hardest season, the most implacable _ dreams, as February creeps on, of the flame that will presently melt it away. Everything tires with time, and starts to seek some opposition, to save it from itself.

When you are fully conscious, drama does not come into your life anymore.

Maybe I shouldn't trust him after all, just like he doesn't seem to trust me fully. Shit, is it always so hard to get close to someone?