Amazing how the heart clutches at anything familiar, whimpering Mine!Mine!

One of the gravestones in the cemetery near the earliest church has an anchor on it and an hourglass, and the words In Hope. In Hope. Why did they put that above a dead person? Was it the corpse hoping, or those still alive?

I have long since decided if you wait for the perfect time to write, you'll never write. There is no time that isn't flawed somehow.

When they came to harvest my corpse (open your mouth, close your eyes) cut my body from the rope, surprise, surprise: I was still alive. Tough luck, folks, I know the law: you can't execute me twice for the same thing. How nice. I fell to the clover, breathed it in, and bared my teeth at them in a filthy grin. You can imagine how that went over. Now I only need to look out at them through my sky-blue eyes. They see their own ill will staring then in the forehead and turn tail Before, I was not a witch. But now I am one.

But people will do anything rather than admit that their lives have no meaning. No use, that is. No plot.

At the very least we want a witness. We can't stand the idea of our own voices falling silent finally, like a radio running down.

More and more I feel like a letter—deposited here, collected there. But a letter addressed to no one.