She Didn't Love Him And

She Had Died At Age Twelve, And By Now She Was Nothing But The Memory Of Love-- Nothing, Now, But Bones.

Each Letter Has A Shape, She Told Them, One Shape In The World And No Other, And It Is Your Responsibility To Make It Perfect.

Its Impossible To Control The Reception Of Your Work - The Only Thing You Can Control Is The Experience Of Writing Itself, And The Work You Create.

All That Sunny Afternoon, Traveling North And East, Caroline Believed Absolutely In The Future. And Why Not? For If The Worst Had Already Happened To Them In The Eyes Of The World, Then Surely, Surely, It Was The Worst That They Left Behind Them Now.

You Can't Stop Time. You Can't Capture Light. You Can Only Turn Your Face Up And Let It Rain Down.