The Thief of Always

Wherever I go, I will speak of you with love.

Evil, however powerful it seemed, could be undone by its own appetite.

We're both thieves, Harvey Swick. I take time. You take lives. But in the end we're the same: both Thieves of Always.

Harvey wasn't interested in the clothes, it was the masks that mesmerized him. They were like snowflakes: no two alike. Some were made of wood and of plastic; some of straw and cloth and papier-mâché. Some were as bright as parrots, others as pale as parchment. Some were so grotesque he was certain they'd been carved by crazy people; others so perfect they looked like the death masks of angels. There were masks of clowns and foxes, masks like skulls decorated with real teeth, and one with carved flames instead of hair.

However this miraculous place worked, it seemed real enough. The sun was hot, the soda was cold, the sky was blue, the grass was green. What more did he need to know?

the scent of sweet cherry had attracted hundreds of ants. They were crawling over it and into it, many drowning for their greed.

Perhaps the House had heard Harvey wishing for a full moon, because when he and Wendell traipsed upstairs and looked out the landing window, there--hanging between the bare branches of the trees--was a moon as wide and as white as a dead man's smile.

He’d fill every moment with the seasons he’d found in his heart: hopes like birds on a spring branch; happiness like a warm summer sun; magic like the rising mists of autumn. And best of all, love; love enough for a thousand Christmases.

What did it matter, anyway, he thought, whether this was a real place or a dream? It felt real, and that was all that mattered.

Nothing's perfect... because time passes... and the beetle and the worm find their way into everything sooner or later.

O tempo seria precioso, daí em diante. continuaria a passar despercebido, é claro, como sempre, mas Harvey estava determinado a não desperdiçá-lo com suspiros e queixumes. Preencheria cada momentos com as estações que encontrara no coração: esperança, coo pássaros, nos ramos da Primavera; felicidade como um Sol quente de Verão; magia, coo as inesperadas neblinas de Outono. E o melhor de tudo: o amor - amor suficiente para durar mil Natais.

Eu não sabia o que estava a perder', disse Harvey. 'Ah...', disse Hood, suavemente 'mas não é sempre assim que as coisas se passam? Há coisas que nos deslizam pelos dedos e só quando se vão embora é que nos arrependemos. Mas aquilo que se vai embora não volta, Harvey Swick!