Sitting Riverside Quotes

Every now and then, I realize that it's been months since I've been touched. I can't tell you how dark it feels. When I can't be alone in my apartment anymore, I walk the riverside and the streets and the campus in my neighborhood, and the quiet feels like it's going to kill me. Yes, sometimes there are people, and sometimes they're even with each other, and sometimes I can even see their faces - but that's worse, somehow. Because there's such an undeniable reason underlying the fact that I cannot get close to them. In the sickest, most awful way, it feels like being a teenager again. All these strangers, they have lives and they're going on without you and what you can do is nothing, nothing, nothing but walk alone and sit in your room. Supposedly, one day, life will be different, but how does that mean anything and how can you believe that? The strangers say they're feeling the same way. I know I should believe they are.

But the owner knew them, and kissed them each on the cheek, even Rhysand. Well, except for Amren, whom the owner bowed to before she hustled back into her kitchen and bade us sit at the large table that was half in, half out of the open storefront. The starry night was crisp, the wind rustling the potted palms placed with loving care along the riverside walkway railing. No doubt spelled to keep from dying in the winter—just as the warmth of the restaurant kept the

Alice could picture him standing in the doorway on Pomander, and remembered sometimes coming across him and her father smoking cigarettes on the corner of 96th Street and West End Avenue when she and some of her friends were climbing back up from Riverside Park. “He always had stuff like this. Was too trippy for me, usually, but sometimes, yeah. Sometimes we’d get so zonked and just sit in his apartment on Seventy-Ninth Street and listen to Love’s Forever Changes on vinyl.

When the knock sounded, Constance Greene stopped playing the Flemish virginal and the library fell silent and tense. She glanced in the direction of Special Agent A. X. L. Pendergast, sitting by a dying fire, wearing thin white gloves, having gone quite still while leafing through an illuminated manuscript, a glass of Amontillado half-finished on the side table. Constance recalled the last time someone had knocked on the door of 891 Riverside Drive—the rarest of occurrences at the Pendergast mansion. The memory of that awful moment now hung in the room like a miasma.