Stupid how the mind will try to distract itself.

Live free or die. Four words. Thirteen letters. Ridges, bumps, swirls under my fingertips. Another story. We cling tightly to it, and our belief turns it to truth.

Less than a month ago all of August still stretched before us - long and golden and reassuring, like an endless period of delicious sleep.

The old Lena is dead.

And I guess that's when it starts to hit me: the whole point is, you do what you can.

Finishing books - and leaving the world you've created - is always a kind of emotionally wrenching experience. I usually cry.

It's too late. I've seen things...I've lost things you can't understand.