Everyone Deserves A Happy Ending.

When I Was Little, The Great Mystery To Me Was Not How Babies Were Made, But Why?

The Act Of Reading Is A Partnership. The Author Builds A House, But The Reader Makes It A Home.

It Is The Things You Cannot See Coming That Are Strong Enough To Kill You.

Sometimes There Aren't Words. The Silence Between Us Is Flung Wide As An Ocean. But I Manage To Reach Across It, To Wrap My Arms Around Him.

Let Me Tell You What Happens When You Cook Down The Syrup Of Loss Over The Open Fire Of Sorrow: It Solidfies Into Something Wlaw. Not Grief, Like You'd Expect, Or Even Regret. No, It Gets Thick As Paste, Black As Ash; Yet It Isn't Until You Dip A Finger In And Feel That Sharp Taste Dissolving On Your Tounge That You Realize This Is Angel In Its Purest Form, Unrefined; A Substance To Be Weighed And Measyred And Spread.