Best 16 quotes of Nathan Walkowicz on MyQuotes

And now, whenever I return, I feel as if our echo is still there, forever caught in the branches of those sycamore trees, reminding me that I am loved, that I should love others, and that years move much too quickly.

Emotions don't always show up on time.

I could strip words of their meaning and listen for hours.

I told her about my grandfather, about the little apartment we used to share over a nice-smelling bakery. It had one window, and you could sit there, on the cracked paint, studying people in the street. My grandfather would stroll down the sidewalk, tools in hand. He was a plumber. And there was always work to be done.

It was a mindless game, but what else could I do? I was lost. I was alone. Terribly alone. And, in those brief moments of play, I could reshape all of existence. My tiny hands could scoop up the entire universe. Slowly, carefully, as though not to ruin the charm, I raised my hands, and watched the beads of light drip like golden ink from my delicate fingertips.

More and more, I began to see the characters of these silly tales walk out of the pages and amble into the busy streets. They sat in cafes, and checked their phones, and spoke in different languages, and held plastic signs, and argued in meetings, and waited for the light to turn, and stepped back onto the curb.

My eyes fluttered. I coughed up some blood. And I laughed, mocking myself, mocking my own adventure. THE GIANT was simply a story. I was alone. A long time passed. A splashing of footsteps. Then, two enormous hands. With effort, they pulled my body from the pavement. My limbs were heavy.

Now, to be practical, your thoughts must manifest into actions. You must actualize your thoughts, and not let good ideas go to waste in some dusty classroom or elaborate lecture hall.

Now, which of these stories is about you? Which one describes or illuminates an aspect of your life? Now, keep in mind, a fool will answer quickly. He will report that none of these tales relate to the world in which he resides; he will find nothing apropos, nothing applicable to his present hour. A wise man, on the other hand, might take his time to answer. He might listen to the changing voices, to the accumulation of characters, and places, and ideas. He might notice how they all string together, each part functioning individually and amid the whole. He might see something larger, something more. In time, he might even begin to see his own character connects to everything.

Only fools and sages believe in THE GIANT, Lydian. Only fools and sages.

That night, in the late hours, as the carpenter and I sat on the roof, watching the sunset burn the distant clouds to sleep, I wished that I could turn back the pages of life, to reread the small moments.

The Architect, growing tired, sat upon his unfinished work, looking down (or up) at the earth. What else could he do? He had many more ideas, but, by this time, they did not seem to add any true value. He scratched his chin. He watched his tools float about.

The borders of existence began to melt away and I soon found that I could even will my vision unclear, and then bring it back into focus. It all had to do with some mechanism behind my eyes.

Their tastes have been narrowed, not refined, Lydian.

The moonbeams dripped across the man’s face.

What were the rumors? What did THE GIANT look like? What language did HE speak? What color was HIS skin? Was THE GIANT even a HE? And, of course, was THE GIANT kind or cruel?