“As leaves cover the forest floor in a carpet of vibrant rusts, orange and gold, autumn proves that sometimes death too can be a beautiful thing.”

So sing a soft lullaby to the things you hate about yourself, and get to know them too.

There is something moon-soaked and dawn-flavoured about her.

These are women made of terrible tempests and savage storms and the untamed unwanted.

Fearless already runs through your blood. Now do it justice.

You become the thing that hurts you until it can hurt you no more.

I am so afraid of disappointing the people I love, I often forget that I am someone I love too. And I need kindness just as much as I believe the people I love do.

Every woman is both match and spark, a light for each other from the dark.

Our stories don’t begin and end because men we once trusted have left them.

I hope you never doubt again that even when you are in pain, that you are a miracle, that every part of you is incredible.

Everyone has forgotten that Lucifer was beautiful too and God’s favorite till he fell.

Knowledge after all is a dark art, full to the brim with liberty, a trembling, malleable power.

People are going to betray you the way Judas betrayed Jesus, the way Brutus betrayed Caesar, and you will love them anyway.

Grief makes unlikely warriors out of us all.

These are girls made of dark lace and witchcraft and a little bit of vice.

But the universe never promised you this would be easy. After all, you are the hero here.

Tell them all what they tried to kill came back. Tell them all that I have come home.

She smashes her knuckles into winter As autumn’s wind fades into black She is the saint of all the sinners, the one whose fallen through the cracks… (iViva la Gloria!)

It was one of those sumptuous days when the world is full of autumn muskiness and tangy, crisp perfection: vivid blue sky, deep green fields, leaves in a thousand luminous hues. It is a truly astounding sight when every tree in a landscape becomes individual.

Life is a metaphysical autumn, with time it changes the color of life and fall, but always has an aura of change and depth.

His beautiful, light imagination is the wing that on the autumn evening just brushes the dusky window.

Two monks sit facing, playing chess on the mountain, The bamboo shadow on the board is dark and clear. Not a person sees the bamboo’s shadow, One sometimes hears the pieces being moved.

Love the trees until their leaves fall off, then encourage them to try again next year.

A strip of water’s spread in the setting sun, Half the river’s emerald, half is red. I love the third night of the ninth month, The dew is like a pearl; the moon like a bow.

Delicious autumn! My very soul is wedded to it.