After love, no one is what they were before.
All jobs are odd, or they would be games or naps or picnics.
The storm ate up September’s cry of despair, delighted at its mischief, as all storms are.
I am the Walker and the Maze.
Well enough. I won't ask you if your love is true or any of that rot—it's not my place to judge. After all, I'm a naked woman chained to a wall; I've no business questioning the lifestyles of wine-makers or anyone else.
It is harder, usually, to find a person who wants to walk the streets of me, to taste the teas of my country, to... immigrate, you could say.