people do terrible things, sometimes, for the best reasons.

It's going to be okay. Words that mean nothing. really, just sounds intoned into vastness and darkness, little scrabbling attempts to latch on to something when we're falling.

How can someone have the power to shatter you to dust--and also to make you feel so whole?

The question was: Will you meet me tomorrow? And the word was: Yes.

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

The hours here are flat and round, disks of gray layered one on top of the other...they move slowly, at a grind, until it seems as though they are not moving at all. They are just pressing down.

Funny how time heals. Like that bullet in my ribs. It's there, I know it's there, but I can barely feel it at all anymore.