Out of sight above the house, the mirror moon reflected the sun of a day not yet dawned, shining the pale light of tomorrow on the yard and on the paper birches.

I build a book the way coral reefs are built: millions of little calcareous skeletons piling up one atop another, though in my case the skeletons are drafts.

I'm alive but I have no life. I'm alive but also dead. I'm dead and alive.

In the wind, the trees, like agitated lions preparing to roar, shook their great green manes.

Alliteration seems to offend people.

Books had shown me, however, that all people everywhere wanted their lives to have purpose and meaning. This longing was universal.

A scar is not always a flaw. Sometimes a scar may be redemption inscribed in the flesh, a memorial to something endured, to something lost.