They smile too much, but it’s an ugly kind of smiling: it’s not joy, it’s pleading.

I live in an apocalyptic dream. My steps fit into it so precisely that I fear most of all I will grow bored reliving the thing so exactly.

A chaque jour suffit sa peine, et demain est un autre jour.

...the summer of the gypsy moths when all the trees in their yard were bare, the leaves chewed by caterpillars. You could hear crunching in the night. You could see silvery cocoon webbing in porch rafter and strung across stop signs.

Written By Alice Hoffman

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