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

Letters are just pieces of paper," I said. "Burn them, and what stays in your heart will stay; keep them, and what vanishes will vanish.

And it was the kind of thing that loses the most important nuances when reduced to words. He had never told anyone about it, and he probably never would.

His heart, like mine, was ticking off the time allotted to his small restless body.

Life is here, death is over there. I am here, not over there.

Sometimes when I look at you, I feel I'm gazing at a distant star. It's dazzling, but the light is from tens of thousands of years ago. Maybe the star doesn't even exist any more. Yet sometimes that light seems more real to me than anything.

In my younger days, I was trying to write sophisticated prose and fantastic stories.