Don't worry about what you're writing or whether it's good or even whether it makes sense.

Mama, Mama, help me get home I'm out in the woods, I am out on my own. I found me a werewolf, a nasty old mutt It showed me its teeth and went straight for my gut. Mama, Mama, help me get home I'm out in the woods, I am out on my own. I was stopped by a vampire, a rotting old wreck It showed me its teeth and went straight for my neck. Mama, Mama, put me to bed I won't make it home, I'm already half-dead. I met an Invalid, and fell for his art He showed me his smile, and went straight for my heart. -From "A Child's Walk Home," Nursery Rhymes and Folk Tales

my wild, uncured, erratic, incomprehensible heart.

It's so strange how life works: You want something and you wait and wait and feel like it's taking forever to come. Then it happens and it's over and all you want to do is curl back up in that moment before things changed.

At a certain point your brain stops to rationalize things. At a certain point it gives up, shuts off, shuts down.

They’d already taken her from me once. I didn’t want to lose her again.

His secret name, which belongs to me, and to him, and to no one else.