“Like a compass needle that points north, a man’s accusing finger always finds a woman. Always.”

One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.

Behind every trial and sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God has a reason.

One could not count the moons that shimmer on her roofs, Or the thousand splendid suns that hide behind her walls.

Behind every trial and sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God has a reason.

I’ve read that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.

A sudden happiness catches me unawares. I feel it trickling into me, and my eyes go liquid with gratitude and hope.

Behind every trial and sorrow that He makes us shoulder, God has a reason.

I’ve read that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.

A sudden happiness catches me unawares. I feel it trickling into me, and my eyes go liquid with gratitude and hope.

I’ve read that if an avalanche buries you and you’re lying there underneath all that snow, you can’t tell which way is up or down. You want to dig yourself out but pick the wrong way, and you dig yourself to your own demise.

But time, it is like charm. You never have as much as you think.

A sudden happiness catches me unawares. I feel it trickling into me, and my eyes go liquid with gratitude and hope.

But time, it is like charm. You never have as much as you think.

But time, it is like charm. You never have as much as you think.

I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality, rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away.

I want to tear myself from this place, from this reality, rise up like a cloud and float away, melt into this humid summer night and dissolve somewhere far, over the hills. But I am here, my legs blocks of concrete, my lungs empty of air, my throat burning. There will be no floating away.

As if flesh and skin and hands are any match for bullets. As if bones won’t crack in hails of powder and lead. As if rivers of blood are not the direct result of trigger fingers that bend but do not break on “bad days”.

Writing, to me, is simply thinking through my fingers.

On the other hand, you have different fingers.

Want girls to let you put your fingers in certain places? Get a manicure.

As individual fingers we can easily be broken, but all together we make a mighty fist.

No better feeling than holding that little finger and asking her about her day.

Happiness never lays its finger on its pulse.

My choices are like my fingerprints, they make me unique.