Nothing was nothing else. Nothing was anything it shouldn’t be.

She was a wicked thing sometimes. All full of want. As if the shape of the world depended on her mood. As if she were important.

But no. There is a difference between the truth and what we wish were true.

It exhasperated her, but she knew better than to force the world to her desire.

She knew the true shape of the world. All else was shadow and the sound of distant drums.

I cannot help but wonder how many of us walk through our lives, day after day, feeling slightly broken and alone, surrounded all the time by others who feel exactly the same way.

Answers were always important, but they were seldom easy.

Some days simply lay on you like stones.

The gesture was so tight with rage she feared she’d snap and crack the world in two.

I love her more than just a little. I think it's because we're both somewhat broken, in our own odd ways. More importantly, we're both aware of it.

But for half a minute she wished it was a different sort of day, even though she knew that nothing good could come from wanting at the world.

I'm writing a book. I've got the page numbers done.

Whatever it will bring, it will be good to be there, in the Land of Future!

Storytelling is a gift, but writing is a learned art.

It's all you can say, when the end comes: 'I did not waste my time.' I think that matters. I think it may be all that matters.

I always say you can never be extravagant with beauty. Beauty is God made real. Beauty is life.

One thing I detest most about the financial press is the lack of accountability. All sorts of nonsense is said without penalty.

Never speak of yourself to others; make them talk about themselves instead; therein lies the whole art of pleasing. Everybody knows it, and everyone forgets it.

If it gets too bad, go. I’ll understand.” I won’t.

Evil counsel travels fast.