The months fall to shards at my feet.
Maybe what frightens us about the edge isn't our fear of morality, but the thoughts it leads us to have.
We writers are resilient souls.
Childhood is a long, long road, from which that dark whispering forest of death seems an impossible destination.
Rhine. The river that, somewhere out there, has broken free.
There is a silence so great that I can hear the ice crystals cracking and falling from eyelashes of girls who will never blink again.