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1 " From Orient PointThe art of living isn't hard to muster:Enjoy the hour, not what it might portend.When someone makes you promises, don't trust herunless they're in the here and now, and just herwilling largesse free-handed to a friend.The art of living isn't hard to muster:groom the old dog, her coat gets back its luster;take brisk walks so you're hungry at the end.When someone makes you promises, don't trust herto know she can afford what they will cost herto keep until they're kept. Till then, pretendthe art of living isn't hard to muster.Cooking, eating and drinking are a clusterof pleasures. Next time, don't go round the bendwhen someone makes you promises. Don't trust herpast where you'd trust yourself, and don't adjust herwords to mean more to you than she'd intend.The art of living isn't hard to muster.You never had her, so you haven't lost herlike spare house keys. Whatever she opens,when someone makes you promises, don't. Trust yourart; go on living: that's not hard to muster. "
― Marilyn Hacker
2 " She seems to always get itTo have become adept at empathyAlways giving excuses for people who’ve aggrieved herTo the point it’s hard for her to hit back when necessary All because she assumes she ‘understands’Then, one day . . .She finally stands up for herselfAt that moment, she revels in the natural instinct of self-preservationShe realises all this while the power she’s been withholdingIn a transcendent moment of epiphanyIt’s all beautiful ‘causeNow, she can get back to empathy with understanding, rather, than without. "
― Ufuoma Apoki
3 " Peter," she began. He looked up at her, and she could see the pain in his eyes. " I love you," she said freely. With Peter, she was laid bare; he extracted her from herself.Peter didn't know what to say. HIs eyes glimmered, bright and burning. He only let her see them a moment before he turned away. He took a ragged breath." What were you doing with Rose anyway" she demanded, asking a lot of him.Peter darkened again. He turned his back to her, took a step farther into the alley, and said in a dead voice, " I don't have to like herto get what I want." " I don't believe you," Valerie said, reaching for his face, again. Peter pulled away from her. " You're lying. "
4 " I only thoughtOf lying quiet there where I was thrownLike sea-weed on the rocks, and suffer herTo prick me to a pattern with her pin,Fibre from fibre, delicate leaf from leaf,And dry out from my drowned anatomyThe last sea-salt left in me. "
― Elizabeth Barrett Browning