Clouds come floating into my life, no longer to carry rain or usher storm, but to add color to my sunset sky.
Being solitary is being alone well. Solitude is an achievement.
Freedom of being alone is intoxicating.
How can the dead be truly dead when they still live in the souls of those who are left behind?
I collect the rocks that other people throw at me. Some of them are kinda pretty. One day they’ll figure out that rocks don’t bother me.
I was adrift in a sea of questions and if answers were lifeboats, I was in imminent danger of drowning.
She’ll be here until she runs. Some just have to chase the sun.