I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind; I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.

It's a terrible thing, isn't it, the way we throw people away?

Time had a way of moulding people into shapes they themselves no longer recognised.

It's a funny thing, character, the way it brands people as they age, rising from within to leave its scar.

Had any poet adequately described the wretched ugliness of a loved one turned inside out with grief?

And then he was kissing her, and she was struck by his nearness, his solidity, his smell. It was of the garden and the earth and the sun. When Cassandra opened her eyes, she realized she was crying. She wasn't sad, though, these were the tears of being found, of having come home after a long time away.

I'm good with words, but not the spoken kind; I've often thought what a marvelous thing it would be if I could only conduct relationships on paper.