The word friends doesn't seem to stretch big enough to describe how we feel about each other. We forget where one of us starts and the other one stops.

When she is happy, she can't stop talking, when she is sad she doesn't say a word.

What if people knew they were recycled? Would that change anything?

I dont really write with the idea of trying to teach any lessons. I want to tell a story as truthfully and engagingly as I can, and then let the chips fall where they may.

Maybe, sometimes, it's easier to be mad at the people you trust because you know they'll always love you, no matter what.

She perched on her windowsill, gazing at the lurid sun soaking into the Caldera, trying to appreciate it even though she couldn’t have it. Why did she always feel she had to do something in the face of beauty?

The phone was her worst enemy and her best friend but she never knew which until she answered it.