There's such an intimate kind of beauty in the act of listening to music being created right in front of your eyes, watching the notes fly off the performers' fingertips, the night enveloping you like a blanket. 

So you say there is no Father Christmas,                                                                          You say there is no Santa Claus                                                                                         Reindeer cannot fly, it's all a grown-up lie...

People don't say what they mean very often. You have to read between the lines of their behavior, of what they say, to get to what they truly feel. That's what good literature is all about-- what Austen did better than anyone.

The day is crisp and clear, almost like every other morning he's taken the same walk in the snow, hiking to the forest and back.

Pain and betrayal and then nothingness. That's the death and she's almost welcoming it.