She was a compulsive pessimist, always looking for the soft brown spot in the fruit, pressing so hard she created it.
She had a mind like a box of fireworks and hands that played recklessly with matches
It’s hell writing and it’s hell not writing. The only tolerable state is having just written.
Almost painfully he took his eyes from her.
Grief can be a burden, but also an anchor. You get used to the weight, how it holds you in place.