When I Was Whole (And When I Fell Apart)

For all the raging storms and bright sunshine tumbling within him, he had no talent for pouring feelings to paper, no similes or metaphors for the ever-growing cacophony of emotions swirling inside like a hurricane. Poets were those who could make worlds out of words, pictures out of ink-stained fingers, and string together an entire universe with a single stroke of their pen.

But Laurence was no poet.