Maybe that's what you got when you stood over your grief, facing it finally. A sense of its depths, its area, the distance across, and the way over or around it, whichever you chose in the end.

It passed, though. That was the bad thing. It always passed.

call it crazy, or just chicken salad. But within reason, or without it i was in it too.

When you can't save yourself or your heart, it helps to be able to save face.

It's always been hard to call myself a writer. I think a part of me still thinks it's too good to be true.

But if everything was always smooth and perfect, you'd get too used to that, you know? You have to have a little bit of disorganization now and then. Otherwise, you'll never really enjoy it when things go right.

Doesn't it seem sometimes that the whole world's uphill but at least we know the way back will be easy.