Really? Was that how you quit me?
I might have been eleven years old and a little socially immature, but I recognized a gauntlet being thrown down when I saw it, and I had no choice but to take it up.
Doubt is part of searching. Same as faith.
Every fiction has its base in fact.
It's quiet now. So quiet that can almost hear other people's dreams.
How can it be so unclear to her when it's like the fingers on my hand to me?