Quite simply the book and I were meant to be together.
She was the breeze on a summer's day, the first drops of rain when the earth was parched, light from the evening star.
She was the sort of person for whom fear was the natural response to that beyond explanation.
Memory is a cruel mistress with whom we all must learn to dance.
Even the most pragmatic person fell victim at times to a longing for something other.
It was such a pleasure to sink one's hands into the warm earth, to feel at one's fingertips the possibilities of the new season.