The smell was already filling the room, a rich hot smell which seemed like an emanation from his early childhood, but which one did occasionally meet with even now, blowing down a passage-way before a door slammed, or diffusing itself mysteriously in a crowded street, sniffed for an instant and then lost again.

Dill was off again. Beautiful things floated around in his dreamy head. He could read two books to my one, but he preferred the magic of his own inventions. He could add and subtract faster than lightning, but he preferred his own twilight world, a world where babies slept, waiting to be gathered like morning lilies. He was slowly talking himself to sleep and taking me with him, but in the quietness of his foggy island there rose the faded image of a gray house with sad brown doors.

chekpoint

‘Remember that game you always played with Mom when we were little: Would you still love me if? Would you still love me if I smacked Go? Would you still love me if I robbed a bank? Would you still love me if I killed someone?’
I said nothing. My breath was coming too fast.
‘I would still love you,’ Go said.
‘Go, do you really need me to say it?’
She stayed silent.
‘I did not kill Amy.’
She stayed silent.
‘Do you believe me?’ I asked.
‘I love you.’

пикня лайна кръв труп

Снощи валя сняг.

It snows only once in our dreams.

bloody fingers on a purple knife

the taste of blood

there's always only one reality,
our hearts condemn us