A cliché is like a coin that has been handled too much. Once language has been overly handled, it no longer leaves a clear imprint.

The stupid things you say in the rain, that can't ever be washed away.

I wandered through the stacks, running my hands along the spines of the books on the shelves, they reminded me of cultured or opinionated guests at a wonderful party, whispering to each other.

If this was a sandalwood pyre she would have thrown herself in and this paper she'd become would have caught fire and she and him could sail away like two birds.

I wondered where he was now whether I would ever hear him again. Whether someone would love him, someday show him what beauty mean't.

I closed my eyes to watch tiny dancers like jeweled birds cross the dark screen of my eyelids.

No matter where I was, my compass pointed west. I would always know what time it was in California.