A word into the silence thrown always finds its echo somewhere where silence opens hidden lexicons.

Oblivion cures the old wounds.

A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.

We forget old stories, but those stories remain the same.

Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.

Either you will be you or you will not be at all.

Love is almost never simple.