Memories begin to creep forward from hidden corners of your mind. Passing disappointments. Lost chances and lost causes. Heartbreaks and pain and desolate, horrible loneliness. Sorrows you thought long forgotten mingle with still-fresh wounds.

People see what they wish to see. And in most cases, what they are told that they see.

Trespassers Will Be Exsanguinated.

I paint very messy. I throw paint around. So when I let myself do the same sort of thing with my writing, and I would just write and write and write and revise, that's when I found my rhythm in writing.

I have tried to let you go and I cannot. I cannot stop thinking of you. I cannot stop dreaming about you.

They say it's darkest before the dawn, but it also tend to be quietest, and the quiet lets you hear yourself better.

And now, I'm a best selling author, a different sort of fairy tale that I still sometimes wonder when I'll wake up from.