it’s that there is insufficient mention of Pilot. You can’t have too much dog in a book.
Jane Eyre. A strange child, difficult to love. A lonely only child.
She’s left to deal with so much pain at such a young age—the aftermath of death, the absence of love.
It’s Mr. Rochester who gets burned in the end. I know how that feels. All of it.
Everything seems worse in the darkest hours of the night; I was surprised to hear that the birds were still singing, although they sounded angry.
The poor creatures must hardly sleep in summer, when the light glimmers on and on.
In the half dark, in the full dark, I remember, I remember.
Awake in the shadows, two little rabbit heartbeats, breath like a knife.
I remember, I remember... I closed my eyes. Eyelids are really just flesh curtains.
Your eyes are always “on,” always looking; when you close them,
you’re watching the thin, veined skin of your inner eyelid rather than staring out at the world.
It’s not a comforting thought. In fact, if I thought about it for long enough,
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