I worry hope will crush me, the way love has so many times before. Are they so different, hope and love? O & E in the same place, half of the other in each word. Both swimming in unknowns. I’ve been through the big changes. These ones should seem easier in comparison, I should be more prepared, but they don’t and I’m not. Sometimes I feel like a broken-wing butterfly, clinging to a window screen. Afraid to let go. Afraid to stay. Wondering how much wing is enough to fly.

The rain increases and umbrellas sprout like mushrooms amongst the graves.

And then he tells her stories. Myths he learned from his instructor. Fantasies he created himself, inspired by bits and pieces of others read in archaic books with crackling spines.

I couldn't tell the difference between what was real and what I wanted to be real.

The sensation reminds him of the first snow of winter, for those first few hours when everything is blanketed in white, soft and quiet.

It's a wonderful sort of feeling when people want to spend more time in a world you created.

I saw in details while she saw in scope. Not seeing the scope is why I am here and she is not. I took each element spearately and never looked to see that they never did fit together properly