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Romantic Quotes

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Romantic Quotes

“Stand anywhere on the mountains comprising Rollins Pass and one stands in the footsteps made by Native Americans, John Quincy Adams Rollins, David Moffat, Horace Sumner, George Barnes, John Trezise, James Benedict and Byron Olson, Jason LaBelle, the authors of this book, and many others. The fluttering pages of history unfurl to form an enduring tapestry—a shared story. Perhaps that is why Rollins Pass is so beloved: those who make the journey to bask in the magical beauty of this place and feel their souls restored in some small way reach across the infinite divide of time to uncover their own pioneering spirit on the dusty roads of Rollins Pass.”

“We all share the dream of endless love. Endless love is impossible in a world filled with heartache, injustice, and despair. A person awakens with a jolt when they discover that they mistook the dream of love for reality. A romantic person accepts that reality is harsh and unfair, yet they continue to believe in the dream world of endless love.”

“So the baby was carried in a small deal box, under an ancient woman's shawl, to the churchyard that night, and buried by lantern-light, at the cost of a shilling and a pint of beer to the sexton, in that shabby corner of God's allotment where He lets the nettles grow, and where all unbaptized infants, notorious drunkards, suicides, and others of the conjecturally damned are laid.”

“Come to me in the dark, bring me all of your scars. I want to know every crack in your heart, every ache, every memory that haunts you. I want to see the realness in your face, the way your eyes stay light even when you talk of pain, and the way your lips are uneven when you smile. The grooves carved into your soul have made you beautiful and I want to run my fingers across the etches. I know people cover wounds and disguise their damage, but this is what makes you, you, and I want to know you. I want to sink inside of you and feel your depth. Don’t protect me from your story. We all have a story and I’m tired of drowning alone.”

“Something had shifted between us, faintly, but the change was almost palpable. Our friendship had sat lightly between us, an ephemeral thing, without weight or gravity. Once, in the Boboli Gardens, under the shadow of a cypress tree on an achingly beautiful October afternoon, he had kissed me, a solemnly sweet and respectful kiss. But weeks had passed and we had not spoken of it. I had attributed it to the sunlight, shimmering gold like Danaë's shower, and had pressed it into the scrapbook of memory, to be taken out and admired now and then, but not to be dwelled upon too seriously. Perhaps I had been mistaken.”