It's true that heroes are inspiring, but mustn't they also do some rescuing if they are to be worthy of their name? Would Wonder Woman matter if she only sent commiserating telegrams to the distressed?

I find pieces of myself everywhere, and I cut myself handling them.

She must find a boat and sail in it. No guarantee of shore. Only a conviction that what she wanted could exist, if she dared to find it.

I keep myself locked as a box when it matters, and broken open when it doesn't matter at all.

Stories end in reverie, tragedy, or forgiveness.

When she bleeds the smells I know change colour. There is iron in her soul on those days. She smells like a gun.

They say that every snowflake is different. If that were true, how could the world go on? How could we ever get up off our knees? How could we ever recover from the wonder of it?