Things always seem to glide away. They come to you, stay a moment, then leave again.
...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.
***A KEY WORD*** Imagined
I find writing extremely difficult. I usually have to drag myself to my desk, mainly because I doubt myself. And it's getting harder because I want to improve with every book.
I think she ate a salad and some soup. And loneliness. She ate that, too.
Warily, she dares to allow me a smile. "It's okay. It's just...I'm not too good at talking to people." She looks away again as her shyness smothers her. "So, do you think it'd be all right if we don't talk?