Why is it that weeks and months and years go by so quickly, all in a blur, but moments last forever?

Airports should all belong to the same country. The country of Crappacia. Or Bleakovania. Or Suckitan.

History is a Rorschach test, people. What you see when you look at it tells you as much about yourself as it does about the past.

Because I'm on the phone, Mom!" "Fooling around with your friends again! Who is that?" "Ahmadinejad." "Oh, my goodness! What is he saying?" "That he wants to see Jeezy at the Beacon tonight. Putin's going too. He scalped a ticket from Kim Jong Il. All tha gangstas are going." "Don't be so fresh, young man!" "Gotta go," he says to me. "Enemy forces have dropped a Momshell." "Fall back, solider. Over and out.

I'm wishing he could see that music lives. Forever. That it's stronger than death. Stronger than time. And that its strength holds you together when nothing else can.

I listened as the words became sentences and the sentences became pages and the pages became feelings and voices and places and people.

But his words fall away. He looks confused. He looks flustered and sorry. Like you do when you run up to someone you think you know and take her arm and she turns around and you were wrong.