Maybe All The Schemes Of The Devil

I Will Be Waiting By Candlelight In Our Tree House Of The Mind.

All The World Is Made Of Music. We Are All Strings On A Lyre. We Resonate. We Sing Together.

You Know Someone For A While And Then One Day A Hole Opens Underneath Them, And They Fall Out Of Your World.

She Liked Things That Had Been Written By People Who Had Lived Short, Ugly, And Tragic Lives. Or, Who At Least, Were English.

Men, She Thought, Were One Of The World's Few Sure Comforts, Like A Fire On A Cold October Night, Like Cocoa, Like Broken-in-slippers. Their Clumsy Affections, Their Bristly Faces, And Their Willingness To Do What Needed To Be Done - Cook An Omelette, Change Lightbulbs, Make With Hugging - Sometimes Almost Made Being A Woman Fun.