Like you're riding a train at night across some vast plain, and you catch a glimpse of a tiny light in a window of a farmhouse. In an instant it's sucked back into the darkness behind and vanishes. But if you close your eyes, that point of light stays with you, just barely for a few moments.

Artists are those who can evade the verbose.

Time moves in it special way in the middle of the night.

Generally, people who are good at writing letters have no need to write letters. They've got plenty of life to lead inside their own context.

I'll never see them again. I know that. And they know that. And knowing this, we say farewell.

But this thing, whatever it was, this mistlike something, hung there inside my body like a certain kind of potential. I wanted to give it a name, but the word refused to come to mind. I’m terrible at finding the right words for things. I’m sure Tolstoy would have been able to come up with exactly the right word

Understanding' is merely the sum total of our misunderstandings.