We have to listen to other people's stories. That's the thing. And that's the only way that we eventually get to know ourselves.

There is always room for at least two truths.

I'm of the opinion that the real is imagined and the imagined is quite real. The real is imagined, in the sense that we shape our stories, so anything that even happens on the news gets shaped in a certain way and gets a texture, and that the imagined can be real.

She takes another long haul, lets the smoke settle in her lungs-- she has heard somewhere that cigarettes are good for grief. One long drag and you forget how to cry. The body too busy dealing with the poison.

One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.

I sit there thinking about how much courage it takes to live an ordinary life.

Things in life have no real beginning, though our stories about them always do.