It's not the place, I think. It's the people. We'd have all been the same anywhere else.
I feel the fear, but I walk fast toward it.
Only in today's sick society can a man be persecuted for reading too many books.
I'm just another stupid human.
When we move apart, she looks at me again, till a small tear lifts itself up in her eye. It trips out to find a wrinkle and follows it down.
Somewhere in all the snow, she could see her broken heart, in two pieces.