When people say "the people" or "the public" as though it's the final repository of all morality, I sometimes flinch.

He folded his fear into a perfect rose. He held it out in the palm of his hand. She took it from him and put it in her hair.

He held her as though she was a gift. Given to him in love. Something still and small. Unbearably precious.

I firstly don't think of myself as an activist, I never have. I always say that, I think this word "activist" is relatively recent one. I don't remember when people started being called that or what it means. It reduces both writers and activists, it makes it seem as though a writer's job is to just keep people entertained with best-selling books and the activist's job to keep on repeating the same thing without a great deal of subtlety and intelligence. I don't think either is the case.

If he touched her, he couldn't talk to her, if he loved her he couldn't leave, if he spoke he couldn't listen, if he fought he couldn't win.

Her grief grieved her. His devastated her.

An old-growth forest, a mountain range or a river valley is more important and certainly more loveable than any country will ever be.