There is no hate such as that born out of love betrayed- and my brain screamed out for revenge.

What is normal? Normal is only ordinary; mediocre. Life belongs to the rare, exceptional individual who dares to be different.

We lived in the attic, Christopher, Cory, Carrie, and me, Now there are only three.

Little rabbits have big ears.

Promises are lies wrapped in pretty ribbons -Cinnamon

It was the eyes. The secret of love was in the eyes. The way one person looked at another, the way eyes communicated and spoke when the lips never moved.

It is so appropriate to color hope yellow, like the sun we seldom saw. And as I begin to copy from the old memorandum journals that I kept for so long, a title comes as if inspired. 'Open the Window and Stand in the Sunshine.' Yet, I hesitate to name our story that. For I think of us more as flowers in the attic.