So We Make Stories Of Our Own,

Even Winter — The Hardest Season, The Most Implacable — Dreams, As February Creeps On, Of The Flame That Will Presently Melt It Away. Everything Tires With Time, And Starts To Seek Some Opposition, To Save It From Itself.

Being With People Makes Me Vomit. I Don't Like Em. I Never Did.

And In Time It Will Be As Though Men Had Never Come To This Perfect Corner Of The World-never Called It Paradise On Earth, Never Despoiled It With Their Dream Factories; And In The Golden Hush Of The Afternoon All That Will Be Heard Will Be The Flittering Of Dragonflies, And The Murmur Of Hummingbirds As They Pass From Bower To Bower, Looking For A Place To Sup Sweetness.

Darkness Always Had Its Part To Play. Without It, How Would We Know When We Walked In The Light? It’s Only When Its Ambitions Become Too Grandiose That It Must Be Opposed, Disciplined, Sometimes—if Necessary—brought Down For A Time. Then It Will Rise Again, As It Must.

Perhaps Sunlight Had Always Been Luminous, And Doorways Signs Of Greater Passage Than That Of One Room To Another. But She’d Not Noticed It Until Now.