If You're Writing A Scene For A

I Had Been Right: Freedom Smelled Like Ozone And Thunderstorms And Gunpowder All At Once, Like Snow And Bonfires And Cut Grass, It Tasted Like Seawater And Oranges.

Privately, I Consider Religion To Be A Load Of Bollocks, But When You Have A Sobbing Five Year Old Wanting To Know What Happened To Her Hamster, You Develop An Instant Belief In Anything That Dissolves Some Of The Heartbreak Off Her Face.

That Kind Of Friendship Doesn't Just Materialize At The End Of The Rainbow One Morning In A Soft-focus Hollywood Haze. For It To Last This Long, And At Such Close Quarters, Some Serious Work Had Gone Into It. Ask Any Ice-skater Or Ballet Dancer Or Show Jumper, Anyone Who Lives By Beautiful Moving Things: Nothing Takes As Much Work As Effortlessness.

You Forget What It Was Like. You'd Swear On Your Life You Never Will, But Year By Year It Falls Away. How Your Temperature Ran Off The Mercury, Your Heart Galloped Flat-out And Never Needed To Rest, Everything Was Pitched On The Edge Of Shattering Glass. How Wanting Something Was Like Dying Of Thirst. How Your Skin Was Too Fine To Keep Out Any Of The Million Things Flooding By; Every Color Boiled Bright Enough To Scald You, Any Second Of Any Day Could Send You Soaring Or Rip You To Bloody Shreds.

I Am Not Good At Noticing When I'm Happy, Except In Retrospect.