While Time, The endless idiot, runs screaming round the world.
There is no stillness like the quiet of the first cold nights in the fall.
To know who you are, you have to have a place to come from.
They are the we of me.
But the hearts of small children are delicate organs. A cruel beginning in this world can twist them into curious shapes.
There is so much truth in children and so little self-consciousness. It always strikes me that they are so capable of losing and finding themselves and also losing and finding those things they feel close to.