I Don't Really Read As Much As

I Read Betty Smith's "a Tree Grows In Brooklyn," All Of Shirley Jackson's Books, Which I Loved.

The Grass He Walked Through Was New And A Sweet Smell Clung To His Clothes. There Was Blue Dye On His Hands From The Wild Irises... That The Color Of The Sky Was A Shade That Could Never Be Replicated In Any Photograph, Just As Heaven Could Never Be Seen From The Confines Of Earth.

A Boy Who Is Trouble Is Something Entirely Different As A Man.

How Could I Have Been So Stupid To Ignore Everything I’d Had In My Life? The Color Red Alone Was Worth Kingdoms.

I'm At The Point Where Going Forward Is Easier Than Going Back.