People don't pay attention. And then one day there's an accounting. And after that, nothing is the same.

The road has its own reasons and no two travelers will have the same understanding of those reasons. If indeed they come to an understanding of them at all.

Because the question for me was always whether that shape we see in our lives was there from the beginning or whether these random events are only called a pattern after the fact. Because otherwise we are nothing.

Then they set out along the blacktop in the gunmetal light, shuffling through the ash, each the other's world entire.

Rage is really only for the good days. The truth is there's little of that left. the truth is that the forms I see have been slowly emptied out. They no longer have any content. They are shapes only. A train, a wall, a world. Or a man. A thing dangling in senseless articulation in a howling void. No meaning to its life. Its words. Why would I seek the company of such a thing? Why?

If people knew the story of their lives, how many would then elect to live them?

When the lies are all told and forgot the truth will be their yet.