You’ll know her more by your questions than by her answers. Keep looking at her long enough. One day you might see someone you know.

Angels and crows passed each other, one leaving, the other coming.

Whos love do you cherrish more? Hers or theirs? when you deside that, it's all downhill from there.

We wanted to define her, to wrap her up as we did each other, but we could not seem to get past "weird" and "strange" and "goofy." Her ways knocked us off balance.

Every child's bedroom is as important as a telescope orbiting the planet earth or a philosopher's study.

I listen to the summer symphony outside my window. Truthfully, it's not a symphony at all. There's no tune, no melody, only the same notes over and over. Chirps and tweets and trills and burples. It's as if the insect orchestra is forever tuning its instruments, forever waiting for the maestro to tap his baton and bring them to order. I, for one, hope the maestro never comes. I love the music mess of it.

You occupied my space. But because you were not in my present, when I looked into my future I saw . . . nothing. Isn't that sad? And stupid?