My house is modern, but I like my writing room to be old fashioned. I write on a little wooden secretary desk.

It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.

Whenever she turned her steep focus to me, I felt the warmth that flowers must feel when they bloom through the snow, under the first concentrated rays of the sun.

If sinners where so unhappy, why would they prefer their suffering? But now I knew why. Without my wounds, who was I?

Darkness coiled between what he wanted them to believe and the self he despised. It only made him more alone. How could you save someone when he didn't let you kno him? What a waste. The beauty he murdered in this place. He could never see what he had, only what he failed to achieve.

purification in fire. public cremation

The nearest I'd come to feeling anything like God was the plan blue cloudless sky and a certain silence, but how do you pray to that?