Truth is, of course, relative. But then, so is relative.

Mostly what you lose with time, in memory, is the specificity of things, their exact sequence. It all runs together, becomes a watery soup. Portmanteau days, imploded years. Like a bad actor, memory always goes for effect, abjuring motivation, consistency, good sense.

The best predictor of preschool children's physical activity is simply being outdoors.

Bombs fall and wipe out civilization as we know it, two things come up out of the ashes: roaches and F-150s.

He existed a step or two to one side of the common world, largely out of sight, a shadow, all but invisible. Whatever he owned, either he could hoist it on his back and lug it along or he could walk away from it. Anonymity was the thing he loved most about the city, being a part of it and apart from it at the same time.

Truth is, of course, relative. But then, so is relative.

Time went by, which is what time does, what it is.