I live in the borderlands. The word ghost sounds like memory. The word therapy means exorcism. My visions echo and multiplymultiply. I don't know how to figure out what they mean. I can't tell where they start or if they will end. But I know this. If they shrink my head any more, or float me away on an ocean of pills, I will never return.

In one aspect, yes, I believe in ghosts, but we create them. We haunt ourselves.

It's a shame we can't just admit that we failed family living, sell the house, split up the money, and get on with our lives.

We have to acknowledge that adolescence is that time of transition where we begin to introduce to children that life isn't pretty, that there are difficult things, there are hard situations, it's not fair. Bad things happen to good people.

I breathe in slowly. Food is life. I exhale, take another breath. Food is life.

You were born with the seeds of your talent, the ability to observe the world around you and weave piece of it into a story. I believe that most -- if not all -- people are born with these seeds. What separates the writers from the non-writers is that the writers actually sit down and, you know... write.

She looks like a china doll, observed Grandfather as we departed. I will break just as easily, I muttered.