We're All Liars When It Serves Our

Reality Is A Fragile Thing.

Women Were Different, No Doubt About It. Men Broke So Much More Quickly. Grief Didn't Break Women. Instead It Wore Them Down, It Hollowed Them Out Very Slowly.

You Know, It's A Funny Thing About Writers. Most People Don't Stop To Think Of Books Being Written By People Much Like Themselves. They Think That Writers Are All Dead Long Ago--they Don't Expect To Meet Them In The Street Or Out Shopping. They Know Their Stories But Not Their Names, And Certainly Not Their Faces. And Most Writers Like It That Way.

Please," She Whispered As She Opened The Book, "please Get Me Out Of Here Just For An Hour Or So, Please Take Me Far, Far Away

Why Could She Remember Nothing But Stories Of Frightened People When Capricorn Looked At Her? She Usually Found It So Easy To Escape Somewhere Else, To Get Right Inside The Minds Of People And Animals Who Existed Only On Paper, So Why Not Now? Because She Was Afraid. "because Fear Kills Everything," Mo Had Once Told Her. "your Mind, Your Heart, Your Imagination.