I felt like a rich vagabond who had passed through the world paving my way with gold fairy dust, then realizing too late that the path disintegrated as soon as I passed over it.

I thought I was clever enough to write as well as these people and I didn't realize that there is something called originality and your own voice.

That is the nature of endings, it seems. They never end. When all the missing pieces of your life are found, put together with glue of memory and reason, there are more pieces to be found.

I love and am loved, fully and freely, nothing expected, more than enough received.

I AM A PERSON WHO THINKS ABOUT THE NATURE OF THE SPIRIT WHEN I WRITE. I THINK ABOUT WHAT CAN'T BE KNOWN AND ONLY IMAGINED. I OFTEN SENSE A SPIRIT OR FORCE OR MEANING BEYOND MYSELF. I LEAVE IT OPEN AS TO WHAT THE SPIRIT IS, BUT I CONTINUE TO MAKE GUESSES.

For woman is yin, the darkness within, where untempered passions lie. And man is yang, bright truth lighting our minds.

I discovered that maybe it was fate all along, that faith was just an illusion that somehow you're in control.