There could have been no two hearts So open, no tastes so similar, no feelings So in unison, no countenances So beloved. Now they were strangers; Nay, worse than strangers, for they Could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement.

Perhaps it’s impossible to wear an identity without becoming what you pretend to be.

She thought she couldn’t face her demon
She was afraid she was going to lose 
But she didn’t lose 
She is becoming the girl she was before the demon
She is free

Her pupils were at once her salvation and her despair. They gave her the means of supporting life, but they made life hardly worth supporting.

Written By P. G. Wodehouse

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