When did I stop being me?

At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.

Dear God. Not only am I unemployed and homeless, but I also have a pregnant woman, bereaved dog, elephant, and eleven horses to take care of.

So what if I'm ninety-three? So what if I'm ancient and cranky and my body's a wreck? If they're willing to accept me and my guilty conscience, why the hell shouldn't I run away with the circus?

They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

I just can't. I'm married. I made my bed and now I have to lie in it.

i'm afraid to breathe in case i break the spell