Wine Is Bottled Poetry, He Thinks.

It's Not A Real Name," She Says. "not One That He's Carried With Him Always. It's One He Wears Like His Hat. So He Can Take It Off If He Wants.

It's Helpful For Me To Get Ideas - The Physical Action Of Painting. Sometimes It Frees Up Your Writer Brain. It's Nice For Me Now That The Writing Has Become A Serious Career That Painting Can Become More Like A Hobby.

And There Are Never Really Endings, Happy Or Otherwise. Things Keep Going On, They Overlap And Blur, Your Story Is Part Of Your Sister's Story Is Part Of Many Other Stories, And There Is No Telling Where Any Of Them May Lead.

You Told Me Love Was Fickle And Fleeting.

Marco Knows He Does Not Have The Time To Push Her Away, So He Pulls Her Close, Burying His Face In Her Hair, His Bowler Hat Torn From His Head By The Wind...."trust Me," Celia Whispers In His Ear, And He Stops Fighting It, Forgetting Everything But Her.