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

Maybe any love we ever have is an angel in whatever form.

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

Each of us has a family tree full of stories inside of us, Dirk thought. Each of us has a story blossoming out of us.

I think that poetry is perfect for women raising children, with just bits of time and such need to connect to other women out of the isolation of motherhood.

My heart is a teacup with hairline cracks. I feel like I have to walk real carefully so it won't get shaken and just all shatter and break.

It's not that I literally think I'm a fearie. It's just that I feel so different from most people. And this idea of a race living underground in caverns, spending all their days dancing and playing the fiddle and eating flowers and reciting poetry and sharing their dreams, that to me sounds much more real than the way people live in this world, hating and fighting and wanting and hurting.