People who become used to saying little become used to feeling little.

My dream went all the way back to the beginning. The rain rose into the clouds, and the animals descended the ramp.

We live in a world made up more of story than stuff. We are creatures of memory more than reminders, of love more than likes.

It was terrible. All of the things we couldn't share. The room was filled with conversations we weren't having.

If we are not given the option to live without violence, we are given the choice to center our meals around harvest or slaughter, husbandry or war. We have chosen slaughter. We have chosen war. That's the truest version of our story of eating animals. Can we tell a new story?

Your dad didn't die, so I won't be able to explain it to you.

I'm sorry for my inability to let unimportant things go, for my inability to hold on to the important things.