... she knew that she could not have reached this white serenity except as the sum of all the colors, of all the violence she had known...
I sat down to write it all out. I know now that I won't. In the spirit of Howard Roark, of Dominique Francon and Gail Wynand, but no.... This isn't in their spirit at all. They're characters on a page. This is purely my own, and I'm too possessive, too protective of these feelings to adulterate them for your sake.
And I'm not ready to give them to you. Not yet.
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