The writer's job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are up there, throw rocks at them.
I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces.
His wings were failing, but he refused to fall without a struggle.
Measure me while I live - after it will be too late.
I think she always nursed a small mad hope.
Our best yesterdays are now foul piles of crumpled names.