I eventually found that the soul is more than an immortal commodity to win and save. It is the repository of the inner divine, the truest part of us.

There's nothing like a song about lost love to remind you how everything precious can slip from the hinges where you've hung it so careful.

To fashion an inner story of our pain carries us into the heart of it, which is where rebirth inevitably occurs.

She didn't even know how dangerous the truth could be, all the tiny, shattering seeds it carried.

There is nothing perfect...only life.

I don't remember what they said, only the fury of their words, how the air turned raw and full of welts. Later it would remind me of birds trapped inside a closed room, flinging themselves against the windows and the walls, against each other.

Stories have to be told or they die, and when they die, we can't remember who we are or why we're here.