My heart felt like soft, damaged pace in my chest, like a bruise of a peach.

Poisonwood Bible.

My little beast, my eyes, my favorite stolen egg. Listen. To love is to be marked. To live is to change, to acquire the words of a story. and that is the only celebration we mortals really know.

One way of surviving heartache is to stay busy. Making something right in at least one timy corner of the vast house of wrongs-

We are the balance of our damage and our transgressions...
Believe this: the mistakes are part of the story.

The Poisionwood Bible

We constructed our lives around a misunderstanding, and if ever I tried to pull it out and fix now I would fall down flat. Misunderstanding is my cornerstone. Oy's everyone's, come to think of it. Illusions mistaken for truth are the pavement under our feet. They are what we call civilization.

The Poisonwood Bible