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.

The inevitable is no less a shock just because it is inevitable.

Imagination doesn't always make you long for what you cannot have, but rather thrive in what you do not have.

Writing is an exhausting and demoralizing task that destroys human conceits. Writing an elongated series of personal essay opens a person__ mind to explore paradoxes and discover previously unrealized personal truths. Writing is as arduous as any trek into the wilderness. Every sentence takes a writer deeper into the jungle of the mind, a world of frightening inconsistencies created by our waking life__ desire that the world of chaos conform to our convenience.

No one observed and beheld me, I observed and beheld myself; the invisible current went out and it came back to me. I came to love myself out of defiance, out of despair, because there was nothing else. Such a love will do, but it will only do, it is not the best kind; it has the taste of something left out on a shelf too long that has turned rancid, and when eaten makes the stomach turn. It will do, it will do, but only because there is nothing else to take its place; it is not to be recommended.

I think sometimes when we find love we pretend it away, or ignore it, or tell ourselves we__e imagining it. Because it is the most painful kind of hope there is.