With each passing day, I didn't lose hope. I fought to have more.

To save myself, I destroyed another, and in doing so, I destroyed myself.

Memory feeds imagination.

I hated the tests the raised hopes and failed expectations.

The muse appears at the point in my writing when I sense a subtle shift, a nudge to move over, and everything cracks open, the writing is freed, the lanuage is full, resources are plentiful, ideas pour forth, and to be frank, some of these ideas surprise me. It seems as thought the universe is my friend and is helping me write, its hand over mine.

Yesterday my daughter said to me, 'My marriage is falling apart.' And now all she can do is watch it falling.

Why do some memories live only on your tongue or in your nose? Why do others always stay in your heart?