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.

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.

DNA tells you all the secrets of life,’ he used to say. Except for one—how to live it.

Namaste. It was a Nepalese greeting. It meant: The light within me bows to the light within you.

Together in our house, in the firelight, we are the world made small.

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