My heart is its own fierce country where no one else is welcome.

Stress level: extreme. It's like she was a jar with the lid screwed on too tight, and inside the jar were pickles, angry pickles, and they were fermenting, and about to explode.

As usual, I don't know which way is north, but I know the direction of beauty.

We look at each other with shy relief. It's the look two odd socks give when they recognise each other in the wild.

How many times do your feet have to press down on a path before they make an imprint, before pieces of soul start sticking?

REVISITING THE LIST
1. Kiss Estelle
Okay, at least I've met her. She thinks I'm a creep. And that's withought her knowing I've read her diaries. Unless we somehow fall over, exactly aligned, lip to lip, and gravity causes the pressure, or we find ourselves in a darkened room and through a series of Shakespearian ID muddles she thinks she's kissing someone else, I can't say how this is ever going to happen.