And there are never really endings, happy or otherwise. Things keep going on, they overlap and blur, your story is part of your sister's story is part of many other stories, and there is no telling where any of them may lead.

I am tired of trying to hold things together that cannot be held.

I have absurdly vivid dreams.

Marco moves to close the distance between them, kissing away her tears before catching her lip with his own. As he kisses her, the bonfire glows brighter. The acrobats catch the light perfectly as they spin. The entire circus sparkles, dazzling every patron.

Sometimes I write what I can't paint, and I paint what I can't write. I use a different part of the brain.

Once they were librarians, but that is a subject they will only discuss if heavily intoxicated.

Each of them always gravitating toward the other. Yet still they do not touch.