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Image of the quote is loading... SaveSave So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experienced; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come and the moments one was currently disregarding. (Quindi il giorno divenne un giorno d'attesa, cosa che era, lo sapeva bene, un peccato: i momenti devono essere sperimentati; aspettare è un peccato contro il tempo che deve ancora venire e contro gli istanti presenti che vengono trascurati.) - Quote by Neil Gaiman

So the day became one of waiting, which was, he knew, a sin: moments were to be experienced; waiting was a sin against both the time that was still to come and the moments one was currently disregarding. (Quindi il giorno divenne un giorno d’attesa, cosa che era, lo sapeva bene, un peccato: i momenti devono essere sperimentati; aspettare è un peccato contro il tempo che deve ancora venire e contro gli istanti presenti che vengono trascurati.)

Neil Gaiman
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Songs remain. They last...A song can last long after the events and the people in it are dust and dreams and gone. That's the power of songs.
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I sat in the dark and thought: There’s no big apocalypse. Just an endless procession of little ones.
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Oh, monsters are scared," said Lettie. "That's why they're monsters.
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people tell you so much more when they know you're just about to be dead . and then they talk around you, when you are.
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Three years in London had not changed Richard, although it had changed the way he perceived the city. Richard had originally imagined London as a gray city, even a black city, from pictures he had seen, and he was surprised to find it filled with color. It was a city of red brick and white stone, red buses and large black taxis, bright red mailboxes and green grassy parks and cemeteries.It was a city in which the very old and the awkwardly new jostled each other, not uncomfortably, but without respect; a city of shops and offices and restaurants and homes, of parks and churches, of ignored monuments and remarkably unpalatial palaces; a city of hundreds of districts with strange names - Crouch End, Chalk Farm, Earl's Court, Marble Arch - and oddly distinct identities; a noisy, dirty, cheerful, troubled city, which fed on tourists, needed them as it despised them, in which the average speed of transportation through the city had not increased in three hundred years, following five hundred years of fitful road-widening and unskillful compromises between the needs of traffic, whether horse-drawn, or, more recently, motorized, and the need of pedestrians; a city inhabited by and teeming with people of every color and manner and kind.
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Chicago happened slowly, like a migraine. First they were driving through countryside, then, imperceptibly, the occasional town became a low suburban sprawl, and the sprawl became the city.
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You are not dead, until every person who knew you is dead as well." Where did I hear that? It doesn't matter. There is a village in my head.
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Libraries are the thin red line between civilization and barba
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