When she came to write her story, she would wonder when the books and the words started to mean not just something, but everything.

...and the night is so deep and dark that I wonder if the sun will ever come up.

I just know that right now, we want to be proud. For once. We want to take the struggle and rise above it. We want to frame it, live it, survive it. We want to put it in our mouths and taste it and never forget it, because it makes us strong.

I want to talk to him. I want to ask him about that girl and if he loved her and still misses her. Nothing, however, exits my mouth. How well do we really let ourselves know each other? There's a long quietness until I finally break it open. It reminds me of someone breaking bread and handing it out. In my case, I hand out a question to my friend.

I'm gonna hunt my life down and grab it.

When I find research really rewarding is when one piece of information gives you an idea for a story. That's when it's great.

The last time I saw her was red. The sky was like soup, boiling and stirring. In some places, it was burned. There were black crumbs, and pepper, streaked across the redness.