"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach
I’ve begun washing my face with tears. I have never looked better.
The salt must be doing wonders for my skin.
In time, everything will be forgotten, not forgiven,