She rubbed her eyes, and after a long study of his face, she spoke "Is it really you?" Is it from your cheek, she thought, that I took the seed? The man nodded. His heart wobbled and he held tighter to the branches. It is.

...there would be punishment and pain, and there would be happiness, too. That was writing.

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

I procrastinate in spades. In my defence, I also try to have all other distractions solved before I can concentrate on writing. My small theory is that to write for three hours, you need to feel like you have three days. To write for three days, you need to feel like you've got three weeks, and so on.

Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.

Sometimes I just survive. But sometimes I stand on the rooftop of my existence, arms stretched out, begging for more.

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.