In a family, what isn't spoken is what you listen for. But the noise of a family is to drown it out.

Beauty is a question of optics. All sight is illusion.

Getting the first draft finished is like pushing a peanut with your nose across a very dirty floor.

And so you must grant to God what is God and not try to think of what you have lost, for that way is madness.

Maybe, love is always forgiveness, to a degree.

Stories come to us as wraiths requiring precise embodiments.

Writing allows for fictitious voices - the voices of persons unlike myself - that might otherwise be muted.