65.

No list of things to be done. The day providential to itself. The hour. There is no later. This is later. All things of grace and beauty such that one holds them to one’s heart have a common provenance in pain. Their birth in grief and ashes. So, he whispered to the sleeping boy. I have you.

Excerpt from The Road by Cormac McCarthy

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About Amber Donofrio

A writer, contemporary art enthusiast, avid reader, baker, nature appreciator, and art critic.
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