The city buildings in the distance are holding up the sky, it seems.

I'm not one of these 'the characters write themselves; the story just fell out of me' kind of writers. Wish it was like that.

It's insane to be a writer and not be a reader. When I'm writing I'm more likely to be reading four or five books at once, just in bits and pieces rather than subjecting myself to a really brilliant book and thinking, "Well what's the point of me writing anything?" I'm more likely to read a book through when I take a break from writing.

Possibly the only good to come out of these nightmares was that it brought Hans Hubermann, her new papa, into the room, to soothe her, to love her. He came every night and sat with her. The first couple of times, he simply stayed - a stranger to kill the aloneness. A few nights after that, he whispered, "Shhh, I'm here, it's all right." After three weeks he held her. Trust was accumulated quickly, due primarily to the brute strength of the man's gentleness, his thereness. The girl knew from the outset that Hans Hubermann would always appear midscream, and he would not leave. (36)

Maybe one morning I’ll wake up and step outside of myself to look back at the old me lying dead among the sheets.

***A KEY WORD*** Imagined

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