God knows what I thought! Your brain does amazing acrobatics when it doesn't want to believe something.

But a part of me lies buried in lace and roses on a riverbank in France-a part of me is broken off forever. A part of me will be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

A part of me will always be unflyable, stuck in the climb.

She whispered, 'C'etait la Verite?' Was that Verity? Or perhaps she just meant, Was that the truth? Was it true? Did any of it really happen? Were the last three hours real? 'Yes,' I whispered back. 'Oui. C'etait la verite.

I think that what I do is a form of pathetic fallacy, the literary trope in which nature is in sympathy with the mood of the story. I connect the physical setting and props in the story to the emotional state of the characters.

Hope is treacherous, but how can you live without it?

Must stop. This ink is amazing, it really doesn't smear, even when you cry on it