It was the beginning, and all would be different until it was time for the world to be remade again.

That was always the catch. Your past came with you to your art whether you wanted it to or not. It haunted you. If you had a fraught past, it was the question you always considered, and always had asked of you – would you change it, if you could? Would you trade bad for good, or even for normal, knowing that if you did, the things that mattered to you now might disappear along with the evils of the past? I.

That doesn’t mean that I would destroy those works, or that I’m not proud of having come out the other side. Our past art makes our present art as much as our past life makes us who we are now. In the end, if the art stands up, that’s what matters.

If you have an easy life, you don’t wake up and find yourself in a story.

But there was a type of terror that didn’t care about reality, a fear that lived in secret places, and it clawed at her soft insides.

Our pasts always haunt us. But sometimes the ghosts are friendly, and the memories they bring with them sweet as well as bitter.

You go into the woods to find your story. If you are brave, if you are fortunate, you walk out of them to find your life.

When you go somewhere to be alone with yourself and your art, the problem becomes that you are alone with yourself and your art. For.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t say it. I could. But there are times that you don’t speak, because silence hurts less. There was no need to reopen old wounds when we both wanted them healed.

I am perfectly capable of causing my own share of trouble.