A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.

Words on the page are never prisoners of the page

She had witnessed the world's most beautiful things, and allowed herself to grow old and unlovely. She had felt the heat of a leviathan's roar, and the warmth within a cat's paw. She had conversed with the wind and had wiped soldier's tears. She had made people see, she'd seen herself in the sea. Butterflies had landed on her wrists, she had planted trees. She had loved, and let love go. So she smiled.

More than this, I believe that the only lastingly important form of writing is writing for children. It is writing that is carried in the reader's heart for a lifetime; it is writing that speaks to the future.

I would always be lonely, but no more alone.

A small town is nothing but eyes and gaping maw; it pecks at its own like a flock of vicious birds.

Every atom in me feels composed of lead. This is what dying is: a pull to the ground.