You can build walls all the way to the sky and I will find a way to fly above them.

No guest rooms.” I shake my head resolutely. “I want to be in a room room. A lived-in room.

There's still always the possibility that I've gone totally, clinically cuckoo. But somehow I don't think so anymore. An article I once read said that crazy people don't worry about being crazy - that's the whole problem.

Through wind, and tempest, storm, and rain; The calm shall be buried inside of me; A warm stone, heavy and dry; The root, the source, a weapon against pain

His eyes are the color of honey. These are the eyes I remember from my dreams.

But you can build a future out of anything. A scrap, a flicker. The desire to go forward, slowly, one foot at a time. You can build an airy city out of ruins.

This is not the person I wanted to become: Hatred has carved a permanent place inside me, a hollow where things are so easily lost.