at least i'm talkng to myself. instead of giving myself the cold shoulder
Happy endings are still endings.
When the dawn light is coursing through the slats in the shutters at last, making thin stripes on the floor, she, tossing, decides that for every human soul there must surely be a possible childhood worth living, but once it slips by, there isn’t any reclaiming it or revising it.
For fun? Maybe evil is an art form.
There was much to hate in this world and too much to love.
Her sister's shoes. They sparkeled even in the darkening afternoon. They sparkeled like yellow diamonds, and embers of blood and thorny stars.