Fiction Writing Feels More Honest To Me.

Ecosystems Are Holy. The Word "environmental" Is A Deadly Compromise Itself. It's A Policy Word That Lives Only In The Head, And Barely There.

I Started Having Doubts Right On Top Of My Certainty.

Then In October, Indian Summer, The Air Turned So Soft, The Sunlight So Fragile, And Each Day's Loveliness So Poignantly Doomed That Even Self-ignorance And Restlessness Felt Like Profound States Of Being, And He Just Wandered The Empty Beaches And Misty Headlands In A State Of Serene Confusion And Awe.

We Hear Nothing So Clearly As What Comes Out Of Silence.

--i Truly And Deeply Wanted To Kill Him. And I Believe I Could Have Done It, With Nothing But My Hands. But All Of A Sudden, Out Of Nowhere, Peter Had An Arm Around Me. "let It Go, Kade," He Was Whispering Very Gently, Though His Arm Was Nearly Crushing Me. "open Your Fists," He Said, "and Let Go Of The Coals.