She always had that about her, that look of otherness, of eyes that see things much too far, and of thoughts that wander off the edge of the world.

Happiness. Simple as a glass of chocolate or tortuous as the heart. Bitter. Sweet. Alive.

I'm not fond of cities: the constant activity and swarms of people.

It's a feeling which tells me that any woman can be beautiful in the eyes of a man who loves her.

The past is an obdurate stranger that puts as many marks on us as we attempt to impose on it.

I'm insatiably curious.

I carried recipes in my head like maps.