That’s why I’m a writer.

He scraped through the dark sand to the center house, two stories, both pouring bands of light into the fog. There was warmth and gaiety within, through the downstairs window he could see young people...

I was born when he kissed me, I died when he left me, I lived a few weeks while he loved me

I was born when you kissed me. I died when you left me. I lived a few weeks while you loved me.

There were no passing cars to call out to. You couldn’t call for help from a police car, anyway; he didn’t think you could.