It's Very Selfish When I Write. I'm

He Sat By Her, Watching Every Gesture She Made, As If He Would Paint Her Portrait Afterward.

The Bitterness Of Joy Lies In The Knowledge That Is Cannot Last. Nor Should Joy Last Beyond A Certain Season, For, After That Season, Even Joy Would Become Merely Habit.

There Was No Violence, No Speed. It Moved To The Rhythm Of An Elder Dance, Putting All The Rituals Of The World To Shame. Black, Silver, Gold And Moon-opal, Night And Sea, Fire, Earth, Air And Water.

Madness. I Did Not Get Myself Born To Die. I Have Better Things To Do.

Maidens Who Stay Maidens Turn Into Saints. Old Women Become Sorceresses. Tough Jobs, Both Of These.