I have no idea what happens next.

It's hard to remember that this day will never come again. That the time is now and the place is here and that there are no second chances at a single moment.

Strange to dream in the right shape and build in the wrong shape, but maybe that is what we do every day, never believing that a dream could tell the truth.

Don't you think it's strange that life, described as so rich and full, a camel-trail of adventure, should shrink to this coin-sized world? A head on one side, a story on the other. Someone you loved and what happened. That's all there is when you dig in your pockets. The most significant thing is someone else's face. What else is embossed on your hands but her?

Stories end in reverie, tragedy, or forgiveness.

She was fragile, gentle, wide awake in a sleeping world.

I have a list of titles that I leave at the [library] desk, because they are bound to be written some day, and it's best to be ahead of the queue.