Even amidst fierce flames the golden lotus can be planted.
The thought that I might kill myself formed in my mind coolly as a tree or a flower.
I have the choice of being constantly active and happy or introspectively passive and sad. Or I can go mad by ricocheting in between.
I wish to cry. Yet, I laugh, and my lipstick leaves a red stain like a bloody crescent moon on top of the beer can
What is so real as the cry of a child?
Love is a shadow. How you lie and cry after it