Related posts:
A world grows up around me. Am I shaping it, or do its predetermined contours guide my hand? – Alan Moore
The past can’t hurt you anymore, not unless you let it. – Alan Moore
We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street. – Aimee Bender
Poetry is an extra hand. It can caress or tickle. It can clench and fight. – Adrian Mitchell