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

His words had tossed the book that was her life into the air and the pages had been blown into disarray, could never be put back together to tell the same story.

She felt like a fictional character who'd escaped the book in which her creator had carefully and kindly trapped her, taken a pair of scissors to her outline and leaped, free.

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

They say everyone needs something to love.

While I wasn't certain how I felt about spiritualists, I was certain enough about the type of people who were drawn to them. Only people unhappy in the present seek to know the future.

I am not a storyteller . . . not like the others. I only have one tale to tell.