The alcohol had the effect of making the black cloth blacker. This amused her; she had noted in her journal: "booze affects material as it does people.

Like snowflakes,' Franny said,'none of them the same and yet each one, from where we stand, exactly like the one before

People grow up by living.

There was one thing my murderer didn't understand; he didn't understand how much a father could love his child.

These things, she felt, were not to be passed around like disingenuous party favors. She kept an honor code with her journals and her poems. 'Inside, inside,' she would whisper quietly to herself when she felt the urge to tell.

He took the hat from my mouth. ''Tell me you love me'', he said. Gently I did. The end came anyway

I was the girl he had chosen to kiss. He wanted, somehow to set me free. He didn't want to burn my photo or toss it away, but he didn't want to look at me anymore, either.