Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. Good night. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice. ” “I’ve told you,” he said. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. Let us be friends—as near and close as friends can be.
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