There Was One Thing Bridget Like About

She Perched On Her Windowsill, Gazing At The Lurid Sun Soaking Into The Caldera, Trying To Appreciate It Even Though She Couldn’t Have It. Why Did She Always Feel She Had To Do Something In The Face Of Beauty?

He Loved Her For Being So Beautiful, And He Hated Her For It. He Loved How She Put Shiny Stuff On Her Lips For Him, And He Also Reviled Her For It. He Wanted Her To Walk Home Alone, And He Wanted To Run After Her And Grab Her Up Before She Could Take Another Step.

She Hadn't Chosen The Brave Life. She'd Chosen The Small, Fearful One.

Developing Characters Is A Strange Thing. In The Beginning They Are Abstract And I Wonder How To Move On From There.

No Matter How Far Back You Cut A Willow Tree, It Will Never Really Die.