“There’s a little girl waiting in a garden. She’s going to wait a long while, so she’s going to need a lot of hope. Go to her. Tell her a story. Tell her that if she’s patient, the days are coming that she’ll never forget. Tell her she’ll go to sea and fight pirates. She’ll fall in love with a man who’ll wait two-thousand years to keep her safe. Tell her she’ll give hope to the greatest painter who ever lived, and save a whale in outer space. Tell her This is the story of Amelia Pond And this is how it ends.”
War must be, while we defend ourselves against a destroyer who would devour all; but I do not love the bright sword for its sharpness, nor the arrow for its swiftness, nor the warrior for his glory. I love only that which they defend.
eight caps + angel redefinition
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No, they never end as tales, but the people in them come and go when their part’s ended.
He had a pack as well, once. Five they had been, and a sixth who stood aside. They all had smelled alike, had smelled of pack, but each was different too.