Tarde o temprano, a todos nos alcanza el rayo.
She's sent the crows out to blind the guests coming for dinner!What?
She seems to float in a life next to ours, with limited contact.
She claims they give her moral virtue too, but then she has buckets more of that than she needs.
One day he would finish the job of dying he'd begun in childhood/
Nothing in the Grimmerie on how to depose a tyrant - nothing useful... Nothing there that described why men and women could turn out so horrible. Or so wonderful - if that ever happens anymore.
Mostly his mind wandered. But it didn’t have anywhere special to wander to.
Memory is part of the present. It builds us up inside; it knits our bones to our muscles and keeps our heart pumping. It is memory that reminds our bodies to work, and memory that reminds our spirits...
Look, she said, opening it up, fanning its blank pages in his direction. This is a book, too, and precious little is written in it. It’s just as accurate as the Grimmerie, and maybe more so. Don’t be...
It’s the place of the story, beginning here, in the meadow of late summer flowers, thriving before the Atlantic storms drive wet and winter upon them all.
It’s more convenient to have a hero waiting in the wings than to endure a blowhard standing in the spotlight.
In my raveling thoughts I flew away, as if my spirit were nestled in the breast feathers of some passing hornbill or waxwing.
I lift on my toes at the end of the dock, to dive into the lake because I am hot, and while isolated like a specimen in the glassy slide of summer, the notions of hot and lake and I converge into a co...
I am a woman who slept with my father the Pope.They say I did, at least, and so does he.
How could anyone live without flying?
How brave that had made her feel, and how vulnerable too.
Doubt was much more energy efficient than conviction.
Die Wahrheit lässt sich nach Geschmack gestaltenDenn Wahrheit ist, was alle dafür halten!
Cross a man and you struggle, one of you wins, you adjust and go on - or you lie there dead. Cross a woman and the universe is changed, once again, for cold anger requires an eternal vigilance in all...
One expects poetry, if it is Poetry, to offend.