And, selfish and scared, I wonder how much more he has to give.

It's not hard to own something. Or everything. You just have to know that it's yours, and then be willing to let it go.

He was walking into Faerie, in search of a fallen star, with no idea how he would find the star, nor how to keep himself safe and whole as he tried. He looked back and fancied that he could see the lights of Wall behind him, wavering and glimmering as if in a heat-haze, but still inviting.

They were kissing. Put like that, and you could be forgiven for presuming that this was a normal kiss, all lips and skin and possibly even a little tongue. You'd miss how he smiled, how his eyes glowed. And then, after the kiss was done, how he stood, like a man who had just discovered the art of standing and had figured out how to do it better than anyone else who would ever come along.

Like some kind of particularly tenacious vampire the short story refuses to die, and seems at this point in time to be a wonderful length for our generation.

Not knowing everything is all that makes it OK, sometimes.

On the whole, anything that gets you writing and keeps you writing is a good thing. Anything that stops you writing is a bad thing.