They say everyone needs something to love.

Round and round the questions flew, until finally I found myself standing at the open door of a bookshop. It’s natural in times of great perplexity, I think, to seek out the familiar, and the high shelves and long rows of neatly lined-up spines were immensely reassuring. Amid the smell of ink and binding, the dusty motes in beams of strained sunlight, the embrace of warm, tranquil air, I felt that I could breathe more easily.

There were two now where they had been three. David's death had dismantled the triangle, and an enclosed space was now open. Two points are unreliable; with nothing to anchor them, there is nothing to stop them drifting in opposite directions. If it is string that binds, it will eventually snap and the points will separate; if elastic, they will continue to part, further and further, until the strain reaches its limit and they are pulled back with such speed that they cannot help but collide with devastating force.

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

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

She says there are stories everywhere and that people who wait for the right one to come along before setting pen to paper end up with very empty pages.

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