If I get a new idea today—or any day—I won't run from it. I won't trash it. If it's something I really want to do—I'll do it.

She laughed, and the desert sang.

Be very, very careful not to let the facts get mixed up with the truth.

Letter from Mr. B: Why does a back scratch feel better coming from somebody else than if you do it yourself?

This was the ghetto: where children grow down instead of up.

This was the start of a period that blurs as I try to recall it. Incidents seem to cascade and merge. Events become feelings, fellings become events. Head and heart are contrary historians.

I think of the flower in the bud: huddled, compressed, dark. Yet somehow it feels the night, knows moon from sun. It waits...waits.