We Become The Stories We Tell Ourselves

She Is Overtaken By A Sensation Of Unbeing. There Is No Other Word For It.

Here Is The World, And You Live In It, And Are Grateful. You Try To Be Grateful.

As Writers We Must, From Our Very Opening Sentence, Speak With Authority To Our Readers.

I Was Not Ladylike, Nor Was I Manly. I Was Something Else Altogether. There Were So Many Different Ways To Be Beautiful.

I Don't Think Two People Could Have Been Happier Than We Have Been.