That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.

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

The stars looked like nail heads in the sky--pull a few of them out and the darkness would fall.

Give life long enough and it will solve all your problems, including the one of being alive.

We seldom know what we're hearing when we hear something for the first time, but one thing is certain: we hear it as we will never hear it again. We return to the moment to experience it, I suppose, but we can never really find it, only its memory, the faintest imprint of what really was, what it meant.

I know already that I will return to this day whenever I want to. I can bid it alive. Preserve it. There is a still point where the present, the now, winds around itself, and nothing is tangled. The river is not where it begins or ends, but right in the middle point, anchored by what has happened and what is to arrive.

Ultimately, you can only ever write what you know. It's logically and philosophically impossible to write what you don't know.