She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.

Cassandra always hid when she read, though she never quite knew why. It was as if she couldn't shake the guilty suspicion that she was being lazy, that surrendering herself so completely to something so enjoyable must surely be wrong. But surrender she did. Let herself drop through the rabbit hole and into a tale of magic and mystery.

It is a cruel, ironical art, photography. The dragging of captured moments into the future; moments that should have been allowed to be evaporate into the past; should exist only in memories, glimpsed through the fog of events that came after. Photographs force us to see people before their future weighed them down.

We're all unique, just never in the ways we imagine.

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

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

People might think writing is a hard business, but it's nowhere near acting.