What does it say?" I said, when I had. She said, "It is filled with all the words for how I want you...Look.
All I can do is write about whatever grabs me.
I do love the past but wouldnt want to live in it.
For was that all, she thought bleakly, that love ever was? Something that saved one from loneliness? A sort of insurance policy against not counting?
There is no patience so terrible as that of the deranged.
And perhaps there is a limit to the grieving that the human heart can do. As when one adds salt to a tumbler of water, there comes a point where simply no more will be absorbed.