Brash (Thirteen)

I want my death to be epic.

I miss something I have yet to experience. Isn't this what longing is all about, these little loopholes in time that push us in the right direction?

Have you ever needed a hug so badly that your skin felt as though it no longer fit you properly, as though it had stretched so much that it was too loose on your back?

Stuck somewhere between homesickness and the reality of what "home" is supposed to be.

When I release a book in a year or ten, when no one will be reading them anymore, it's going to be extraordinary.