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What happened to a dream without a dreamer?

Janet Fitch

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Janet Fitch
Age: 68
Born: 1955
Born: November 9
Author
Journalist
Novelist
University Teacher
Writer
LA
California
Janet Elizabeth Fitch
Dreamer
Happened
Dream
Without

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You paid for every second of beauty you managed to steal.
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here, here is my dark world. you carry it for a change. im out
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she’s not as pretty as you,” I said “But she’s a simpler girl,” my mother whispered.
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And I realized as I walked through the neighborhood how each house could contain a completely different reality. In a single block, there could be fifty seperate worlds. Nobody ever really knew what was going on just next door.
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Take my advice. Stay away from all broken people.
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It was only natural to want to destroy something you could never have.
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We strive for beauty and balance, the sensual over the sentimental.
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You can't shape me anymore. I am the uncontrolled element, the random act. I am forward movement in time. You think you can see me? Then tell me, who am I? You don't know.
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It's all I ever really wanted, that revelation. The possibility of fixed stars.
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Appealing to the five senses is the feature that will always set writing apart from the visual media. A good writer will tell us what the world smells like, what the textures are, what the sounds are, what the light looks like, what the weather is.
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Their love as a dragonfly, skimming over echo park, stoppin to visit the lotus. Eating dreams and drinking blue sky.
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We recived our colouring from the Norsemen,hairy savages who hacked their gods to pieces and hung the flesh from trees.We are the ones who sacked Rome.Fear only feeble old age and death in bed.Don't forget who you are.
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To make films, you have to have boundless energy you have to work and play with others really, really well, and I'm really a more contemplative kind of person. I like to sit at home and think, a lot.
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Once you get below the floor of our personal identities, we're all connected. Perhaps that's why we can move into others' lives.
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A cliche is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.
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His voice was cloves and nightingales, it took us to spice markets in the Celebs, we drifted with him on a houseboat beyond the Coral Sea. We were like cobras following a reed flute.
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The word rattled in my head like rocks in an oatmeal box.
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We have no home, she told me. I am your home.
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Pick a better verb. Most people use twenty verbs to describe everything from a run in their stocking to the explosion of an A-bomb.
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Now I wish she'd never broken any of her rules. I understood why she held to them so hard. Once you broke the first one, they all broke, one by one, like firecrackers exploding in your face in a parking lot on the Fourth of July.
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