I felt like time was a great sea, and I was floating on the back of a turtle, and no sails broke the horizon.

How right that the body changed over time, becoming a gallery of scars, a canvas of experience, a testament to life and one's capacity to endure it.

That was the thing about words, they were clear and specific-chair, eye, stone- but when you talked about feelings, words were too stiff, they were this and not that, they couldn't include all the meanings. In defining, they always left something out.

A cliche is everything you've ever heard of.

How can I shed tears for a man I should never have allowed to touch me in any way?

She should think about her own soul, what she was going to do with this funky tattered pond dank item. Dark and stained, a ruined thing.

echo, the death of a sound that had nowhere to go but to come back.