If you don't have a unique voice, then you're not really a writer.

As I watch, the sky fills with clouds of snow feathers from every kind of bird there ever was and even some that only exist in the imagination, like the bluebirds that fly over the rainbow.

Hindsight's a wonderful thing. If we all had it there would be no history to write about.

Ursula craved solitude but she hated loneliness, a conundrum that she couldn’t even begin to solve.

If they would all sleep all the time she wouldn't mind being their mother.

When you chopped logs with the ax and they split open they smelled beautiful, like Christmas. But when you split someone's head open it smelled like abattoir and quite overpowered the scent of the wild lilacs you'd cut and brought into the house only this morning, which was already another life.

In the end, it is my belief, words are the only things that can construct a world that makes sense.