My heart… It feels like my chest can barely contain it. Like it’s trying to escape because it doesn’t belong to me any more. It belongs to you.

I don't think it would be fun to write after inhaling art fumes. (What are art fumes?) No, I just make stuff up. It's easier that way.

He goes his way. We travel a spiral. The quickest way is sometimes the longest.

I'm never quite sure if I'm me when I'm dressed up.

When angels go bad they are worse than anyone else. Remember Lucifer used to be an angel.

I'm writing. The pages are starting to stack up. My morale is improving the more I feel like a writer.

Suggestions? Put it aside for a few days, or longer, do other things, try not to think about it. Then sit down and read it (printouts are best I find, but that's just me) as if you've never seen it before. Start at the beginning. Scribble on the manuscript as you go if you see anything you want to change. And often, when you get to the end you'll be both enthusiastic about it and know what the next few words are. And you do it all one word at a time.