She was a composer, carefully orchestrating how much of herself she let people see. Some thought they had all of her, but she knew better. She was a genius living amongst the mad.

She felt herself teetering on the edge of insanity. Just one little push and off she'd go. Perhaps being mad was the last thing to fear, for seeing the world as it was at times was nothing short of lunacy.

And every night she dreamed of reinventing herself and every morning she convinced herself she needed one more day.

Without pain we cannot embrace contentment, just as without fear we will never understand our strength.

There was something so beautifully freeing about him. He didn't require any answers, he just lived. In a world full of questions, perhaps he was one of the few who genuinely accepted the truth.

Never underestimate the kind, for even the gentlest of souls house a sleeping giant buried deep within their form.