When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.

She was like the sun, She knew her place in the world - She would shine again regardless of all the storms and changeable weather She wouldn't adjust her purpose for things that pass.

Some writers may never create a work. Their purpose is to help others create their first word.

Falling in love with a writer is a dangerous thing, isn't it? The only thing you get out of it sometimes is immortality.

i didn't call myself a writer until everyone else did. i knew it was real then.

The walls around the hood keep the people on the inside from the changes on the outside.