My sisters and I stand, arms around each other, laughind and wiping the tears from each others eyes. The flash of the Polaroid goes off and my family hands me the snapshot. My sisters and I watch quietly together, eager to see what develops. Ghe grey-greensurface changes to the bright colors of our three images, sharpening and deepening all at once. And although we don't speak, I know we all see it: Together we look like our mother. Her same eyes, her same mouth, open in suprise to see, her long-cherished wish.

That is the saddest part when you lose someone you love - that person keeps changing. And later you wonder, Is this the same person I lost? Maybe you lost more maybe less, then thousand different things that come from your memory or imagination - and you do not know which is which, which was true, which is false.

All objects exist in a moment of time.

How can you blame a person for his fears and weaknesses unless you have felt the same and done differently?

Why do you have to use me to show off? If you want to show off, then why don't you learn to play chess." - Ch. 5

I have a writer's memory, which makes everything worse than maybe it actually was.

I felt foolish and tired, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind to discover there was no one there.