He was so handsome,but he didn't look well.He reminded her of a cigarette.

Just like any woman,...we weave our stories out of our bodies. Some of us through our children, or our art; some do it just by living. It's all the same.

I think depression creates in me an urgent need to write, but I also believe that daily stress, and even the positive stress of intense happiness, can compel me to express myself through the written word.

Welcome Beauty, banish fear.

Love is a dangerous angel.

She had changed him. The ice was in his eyes and in his heart, like he had predicted with that song, but now they were deep embedded there, all the pain of the world. Not pain to make you feel for somebody else but pain to make you stop feeling.

Morning. Strawberry sky dusted with white winter powder sugar sun. And nobody to munch on it with