Just to be in love seemed the most blissful luxury I had ever known. The thought came to me that perhaps it is the loving that counts, not the being loved in return -- that perhaps true loving can never know anything but happiness. For a moment I felt that I had discovered a great truth.

Ah, but you're the insidious type--Jane Eyre with of touch of Becky Sharp. A thoroughly dangerous girl.

Death is too much to ask of the living.

I was wandering around as usual, in my unpleasantly populated sub-conscious.

Why is summer mist romantic and autumn mist just sad?

Stew's so comforting on a rainy day.

And no bathroom on earth will make up for marrying a bearded man you hate.