Grieving Doesn't Make You Imperfect. It Makes

I Think I'm Way Too Much Of A Control Freak To Co-author Anything With Anyone. I Have A Hard Enough Time Writing With Myself! I Admire People That Can Do It, But It's Not For Me.

Each Time, I Think I'm Never Going To Write Another Book. It Never Gets Easier.

Outside, The Ocean Was Crashing, Waves Hitting Sand, Then Pulling Back To Sea. I Thought Of Everything Being Washed Away, Again And Again. We Make Such Messes In This Life, Both Accidentally And On Purpose. But Wiping The Surface Clean Doesn't Really Make Anything Neater. It Just Masks What Is Below. It's Only When You Really Dig Down Deep, Go Underground, That You Can See Who You Really Are.

Who Knew Three Dots Could Make Such A Difference? Like Everything Else, A Love Or A Wish Or Whatever, It Was All In The Way You Read It.

I Was Worn Out, Broken: He Had Taken Almost Everything. But He'd Been All I'd Had, All This Time. And When The Police Led Him Away, I Pulled Out Of The Hands Of All These Loved One, Sobbing, Screaming, Everything Hurting, To Try And Make Him Stay.