I used to read fiction, until I started formally studying literature. I have, since then, struggled with trying to enjoy a piece of fiction while ignoring whatever hidden meanings an author may have tried to put in.
Does who we are determine our actions, or does our actions determine who we are?
When the courtesies started, he knew the letters would stop.
She was around. He was around. He felt blessed.
Trapped in camp last night, and feeling horrible about it, I decided to write a poem called But What Can I Do?