here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out

If this was a sandalwood pyre she would have thrown herself in and this paper she'd become would have caught fire and she and him could sail away like two birds.

How vast was a human being's capacity for suffering. The only thing you could do was stand in awe of it. It wasn't a question of survival at all. It was the fullness of it, how much could you hold, how much could you care.

Death like a lover, caressing him, promising him peace, running its fingers through his hair, its tongue in his ear. She put her own two fingers in her mouth. Im so sorry. And pulled the trigger

here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out

Poppies bleed petals of sheer excess. You and I, this sweet battle ground.

Writing mirrors the interior self. You know, any book is like the perfect blueprint of the psyche of the author.