Every Heart Has Its Graveyard.

The Morning Air Was Like A New Dress. That Made Her Feel The Apron Tied Around Her Waist. She Untied It And Flung It On A Low Bush Beside The Road And Walked On, Picking Flowers And Making A Bouquet… From Now On Until Death She Was Going To Have Flower Dust And Springtime Sprinkled Over Everything.

I Am Not Tragically Colored. There Is No Great Sorrow Dammed Up In My Soul, Nor Lurking Behind My Eyes. I Do Not Mind At All.

There Is Something About Poverty That Smells Like Death.

It Was Not Death She Feared. It Was Misunderstanding.

Folklore Is The Boiled-down Juice, Or Pot-likker, Of Human Living.