Some people reflect light, some deflect it, you by some miracle, seem to collect it.

Her smile, I'm sure, burnt Rome to the ground.

This great blue world of ours is but a house of leaves, moments before the wind.

Not all complex problems have easy solutions; so says science (so warns science.)

The thread has snapped. No sound even to mark the breaking let alone the fall. That long anticipated disintegration, when the darkest angel of all, the horror beyond all horrors, sits at last upon my chest, permanently enfolding me in its great covering wings, black as ink, veined in Bees' purple. A creature without a voice. A voice without a name. As immortal as my life. Come here at long last to summon the wind.

Love of love written by the broken hearted, love of life written by the dead.

No one ever really gets used to nightmares.