There Aren't Any Answers, Only Choices

People Assume That Science Is A Very Cold Sort Of Profession, Whereas Writing Novels Is A Warm And Fuzzy Intuitive Thing. But In Fact, They Are Not At All Different.

For I Had Come Back, And I Dreamed Once More In The Cool Air Of The Highlands. And The Voice Of My Dream Still Echoed Through Ears And Heart, Repeated With The Sound Of Brianna's Sleeping Breath. "you Are Mine," It Had Said. "mine. And I Will Not Let You Go.

Sometimes,' He Whispered At Last, 'sometimes, I Dream I Am Singing, And I Wake From It With My Throat Aching.' He Couldn't See Her Face, Or The Tears That Prickled At The Corners Of Her Eyes. 'what Do You Sing?' She Whispered Back. She Heard The Shush Of The Linen Pillow As He Shook His Head. 'no Song I've Ever Heard, Or Know,' He Said Softly. 'but I Know I'm Singing It For You.

Don't Be Afraid. There's The Two Of Us Now.

Not For The First Time, I Reflected That Intimacy And Romance Are Not Synonymous.