Winston sank his arms to his sides and slowly refilled his lungs with air. His...– George Orwell, from Chapter 3 of 1984
Her whisper: a muffled, trembling attempt at honesty; a guarded stab at a point she desperately wants to make. But the world, being loud and harsh and without pity, distracts him, so he never hears her words. The passed moment, the missed opportunity to see eye to eye, maybe it will amount to naught. Perhaps it will never be anything more than a whisper. But she worries: about a missed foothold,...
“Is it so wrong to imagine?” “Don’t ask me. I’m not even real.” -gj