We start out in identical perfection: bright, reflective, full of sun. The accident of our lives bruises us into dirty individuality. We meet with grief. Our character dulls and tarnishes. We meet with guilt. We know, we know: the price of living is corruption. There isn’t as much light as there once was. In the grave we lapse back into undifferentiated sameness

Perhaps family itself, like beauty, is temporary, and no discredit need attach to impermanence.

I wouldn't mind leaving myself behind if I could, but I don't know the way out.

In the end, all disguises must drop.

I do love to sing. Had I a longer set of thigh bones and a sweeter voice, I should have loved to be a performer.

The future reshapes the memory of the past in the way it recalibrates significance; some episodes are advanced, others lose purchase.

Skibbereen have a hard time at [math]; the best that the smartest of them can do with adding two plus two is guessing: three plus one. Correct, sort of, but not always useful.