Desire had never done anything good in her life, so she had divorced it years ago.

Steve's laugh was brittle. “Sarah, we all have our own wounds. We’re all broken in our own way. Mine might look different than yours, but they were deep enough to enlarge my heart.

She could do this. She was stronger now. This was her chance to prove it.

For the first time in years, she felt a yearning for something different, something real. Something more than the life she had.

A writer's heart, a poet's heart, an artist's heart, a musician's heart is always breaking. It is through that broken window that we see the world...

I'm sure you've heard people talk about their Heart's Desire—well that's a load of rot. Hearts are idiots. They're big and squishy and full of daft dreams. They flounce off to write poetry and moon at folk who aren't worth the mooning. Bones are the ones that have to make the journey, fight the monster, kneel before whomever is big on kneeling these days. Bones do the work for the heart's grand plans. Bones know what you need. Hearts only know want.