It is certainly impossible to imagine forgiving the enemy while their animus remains undefeated.
We cannot choose where to start and stop. Our stories are the tellers of us.
I am a woman built upon the wreckage of myself.
We were exiles from reality that summer. We were refugees from ourselves.
Andrew had a gift for deepening the incision he began.
Life is savagely unfair. It ignores our deep-seated convictions and places a disproportionate emphasis on the decisions we make in split seconds.