Short Stories Consume You Faster.

Outside The Leaves On The Trees Constricted Slightly; They Were The Deep Done Green Of The Beginning Of Autumn. It Was A Sunday In September. There Would Only Be Four. The Clouds Were High And The Swallows Would Be Here For Another Month Or So Before They Left For The South Before They Returned Again Next Summer.

Words Are Like Untying A Corset - You Can Move Into This Great Space With Them.

I Don't Want A Tombstone. You Could Carve On It 'she Never Actually Wanted A Tombstone.'

It Is Important To Know The Stories And Histories Of Things, Even If All We Know Is That We Don't Know.

I Want To Be Bored. But I Can't. But I Really Don't Want To Be This Thing That I'm Having To Be Instead Of Being Bored.