Even now, I wonder how much of my life is convinced.

Already, I know that all of this will stay with me forever. It'll haunt me, but I also fear it will make me feel grateful. I say fear because at times I really don't want this to be a fond memory until it's over. I also fear that nothing really ends at the en. Things just keep going as long as memory can wield its ax, always finding a soft part in your mind to cut through and enter.

... And the boy whose hair remained the color of lemons forever.

Can a person steal happiness? Or is just another internal, infernal human trick?

Sometimes people are beautiful.
Not in looks.
Not in what they say.
Just in what they are.

Even death has a heart.