She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.

I sound contemptuous, but I am not. I am interested--intrigued even--by the way time erases real lives, leaving only vague imprints. Blood and spirit fade away so that only names and dates remain.

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.

. . . companions were to be valued, wherever one found them.

I write what I'd like to read and just hope that, along the way, others might like to read them, too.

Always remember, with a strong enough will, even the weak can wield great power.

Reluctance to begin is quick to befriend procrastination. . . .