What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?" I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ. "Sonovabitch." "To his face?" she asked. "I never see his face." "He wears a mask?" "In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.

This isn't a watercolor, it's a mural.

What can you say about a twenty-five year old girl who died? That she was beautiful and brilliant. That she loved Mozart and Bach. The Beatles. And me.

And then I did what I had never done in his presence, much less in his arms. I cried.

Quiet heroism or youthful idealism, or both? What do we know? That life without heroism and idealism is not worth living - or that either can be fatal?

What term do you employ when you speak of your progenitor?" I answered with the term I'd always wanted to employ. "Sonovabitch." "To his face?" she asked. "I never see his face." "He wears a mask?" "In a way, yes. Of stone. Of absolute stone.

The ‘equilibrium’ that people see in me is really an illusion. I am as flawed as anyone. It’s only that I seem to have the knack of hiding.