rain slowly slides down the glass as if the night is crying.
You have to live where you wake up, even if someone else dreamed you there.
On the last morning of Virginia's bloodiest year since the Civil War, I built a fire and sat facing a window of darkness where at sunrise I knew I would find the sea.
Survival my only hope. Success my only revenge
I stop working at about 3 p.m. on Fridays.
Night fell clean and cold in Dublin, and wind moaned beyond my room as if a million pipes played the air.