Maybe some love was guaranteed. Maybe it fit inside you and around you like skin and bones.

Are people drawn to each other because of the stories they carry inside? At the library I couldn’t help but notice which patrons checked out the same books. They appeared to have nothing in common, but who could tell what a person was truly made of? The unknown, the riddle, the deepest truth. I noticed them all: the ones who’d lost their way, the ones who’d lived their lives in ashes, the ones who had to prove themselves, the ones who, like me, had lost the ability to feel.

Weapons are kept from women, but such a naming suggests that perhaps men fear our talents in war as well as our desire for peace.

My grief was cold. It was nothing to share. It was nothing to speak about, nothing to feel.

They weren't true stories; they were better than that.

Some fates are guaranteed, no matter who tries to intervene.

I feel more influenced in my own work by dreams than I do by other writers' works in a way. Or by popular culture, movies - what else is there to write about than love and loss?