This is the forked tongue of grief again. It whispers in one ear: return to what you once loved best, and in the other ear it whispers, move on.

This thing with being lovers, it isn't like being married.

To be well in your mind you have first to be free.

Death, of course, is a refuge. It's where you go when a new name, or a mask and cape, can no longer hide you from yourself. It's where you run to when none of the principalities of your conscience will grant you asylum.

We're often told that we live in a globalized world, and we talk about it all the time, but people don't stop to think about what it means.

Andrew had a gift for deepening the incision he began.

Our stories are the tellers of us.