I was 14 years old when I first remember looking pain and injustice in the eye. I was staring into the face of a girl laying in a Romanian orphanage crib. She had a mop of curly brown hair on her head and tiny bones. Her deep brown eyes seemed vacant until she heard...
It’s a little chilly in my room, so I turn the heat on low. It’s a small escape from my computer, but as I sit down once more in my comfy, leather chair, I see the cursor blink at me once again. Write. Write. Write. Write what you ought to write The little...
