To be closed from everything, and yet to feel, to think...This is the truth of hell, stripped of its gaudy medievalisms. This loss of contact.
The process of giving is without limits.
I dream a lot, in colour and in sound and scent. Quite a few of my stories have come from dreams.
A thing named is a thing tamed.
Garden work clears the mind.
I've never been very good at leaving things behind. I tried, but I have always left fragments of myself there too, like seeds awaiting their chance to grow.