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.

The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.

We shape ourselves by our imaginative reach.

He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake.

He realized that he had thought only about the first step, never imagined the last.

The Irish are great for their tunes, but all their lovesongs are sad and their warsongs happy.

No shame in saying that I felt a loneliness drifting through me. Funny how it was, everyone perched in their own little world with the deep need to talk, each person with their own tale, beginning in some strange middle point, then trying so hard to tell it all, to have it all make sense, logical and final.