I'm not getting it all sorted, she worried. I'm not getting it right. You are brilliant, the Voice reassured her. It is imperfect. So are all things trapped in time. You are brilliant, nonetheless. How fortunate for Us that We thirst for glorious souls rather than faultless ones, or We should be parched indeed, and most lonely in Our perfect righteousness. Carry on imperfectly, shining Ista.

I am an atheist, myself. A simple faith, but a great comfort to me, in these last days.

When you can’t do something truly useful, you tend to vent the pent up energy in something useless but available, like snappy dressing.

It's a bizarre but wonderful feeling, to arrive dead center of a target you didn't even know you were aiming for.

It was never what I wanted to buy that held my heart's hope. It was what I wanted to be.

When I go down into the ground at last, as God is my judge, I pray my best-beloved may have better to say of me than, "He didn't hit me."

Adulthood isn't an award they'll give you for being a good child. You can waste years, trying to get someone to give that respect to you, as though it were a sort of promotion or raise in pay. If only you do enough, if only you are good enough. No. You have to just take it. Give it to yourself, I suppose. Say, I'm sorry you feel like that and walk away. But that's hard