The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts.

I don't think of myself as an artist. I'm just a guy who can write.

He was silent for thirty seconds, maybe a minute. I uncrossed my legs under the table and wondered if this was the right moment to leave. It was as if my whole life revolved around trying to judge the right point in a conversation to say goodbye.

Not to excuse myself, but when you have people right in front of you denying your very presence like that, then see if you don't doubt whether you actually exist. I look at my hands half expecting to see clear through them.

Cell phones are so convenient that they're an inconvenience.

Now for a good twelve-hour sleep, I told myself. Twelve solid hours. Let birds sing, let people go to work. Somewhere out there, a volcano might blow, Israeli commandos might decimate a Palestinian village. I couldn't stop it. I was going to sleep.

Exerting yourself to the fullest within your individual limits: that's the essence of running, and a metaphor for life