What do you think love is - a thing to startle from the heart like a bird at every shout or blow? You can fly from me, high as you choose into your darkness, but you will see me always beneath you, no matter how far away, with my face turned to you. My heart is in your heart. I gave it to you with my name that night and you are its guardian, to treasure it, or let it whither and die. I do not understand you. I am angry with you. I am hurt and helpless, but nothing will fill the ache of the hollowness in me where your name would echo if I lost you.

All I wanted, even when I hated you most, was some poor, barren, parched excuse to love you. But you only gave me riddles.

The man was hit in one eye by a stone, and that eye turned inward so that it looked into his mind, and he died of what he saw there

Peace, tremulous, unexpected, sent a taproot out of nowhere into Morgan's heart.

Content, it dreams awake, and spins the fabric of tales. There is really nothing to be done with such imagery except to use it: in writing, in art.

She is our moon. Our tidal pull. She is the rich deep beneath the sea, the buried treasure, the expression in the owl's eye, the perfume in the wild rose. She is what the water says when it moves.

Then you will have to trust me. Beyond logic, beyond reason, beyond hope, trust me.