August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.
I want to force myself again and again to leave the warmth and security of static situations and move into the world of growth and suffering where the real books are people's minds and souls.
And I, love, am a pathological liar.
Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.
Out of the ash I rise with my red hair and I eat men like air.
I like people too much or not at all.