Some wounds cut us so deep that they stop us. Stop us from letting go, from growing up, from seeing the truth.

People talk of sorrow as if it is soft, a thing of water and tears. But true sorrow is not soft. True sorrow is a thing of fire, and rock. It burns your heart, crushes your soul under the weight of mountains. It destroys, and even if you keep breathing, keep going, you die.

It feels like we're in a Harry Potter book talking about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.

Is death such a high price to pay, when you will die anyway?

I've been writing stories since I was 12. 'Writer's Digest' was one of my writing teachers, actually.

Death cures all ills. Well, most of them.

I got out my jar of ointment. I knew animators who had special containers for the ointment. Crockery, hand-blown glass, mystical symbols carved into the sides. I used an old Mason jar that had once held Grandma Blake's green beans. Larry fished out a peanut butter jar with the label still on it. Extra-crunchy. Yum-Yum.