I envy the music lovers hear. I see them walking hand in hand, standing close to each other in a queue at a theater or subway station, heads touching while they sit on a park bench, and I ache to hear the song that plays between them: The stirring chords of romance's first bloom, the stately airs that whisper between a couple long in love. You can see it in the way they look at each other... you can almost hear it. Almost, but not quite, because the music belongs to them and all you can have of it is a vague echo that rises up from the bittersweet murmur and shuffle of your own memories.

[She] had felt straight away that she wasn’t meeting a new friend, but recognizing an old one.

When all's said and done, all roads lead to the same end. So it's not so much which road you take, as how you take it.

As far as I'm concerned, the only difference between fact and what most people call fiction is about fifteen pages in the dictionary.

Most children are given far too much praise for their early drawings, so much so that they rarely learn the ability to refine their first crude efforts the way their early attempts at language are corrected.

The problem with children is that you have to put up with their parents.

The past scampers like an alley cat through the present, leaving the paw prints of memories scattered helter-skelter.