Twin threads ran through her: fear and excitement.

Music is like you touch the pulse of the world. Music is always happening, and sometimes you get to touch it for a while, and when you do you know that everything's connetcted to everything else.

He carried Paul inside and up the stairs. He gave him a drink of water and the orange chewable aspirin he like and sat with him on the bed, holding his hand...This was what he yearned to capture on film: these rare moments where the world seemed unified, coherent, everything contained in a single fleeting image. A spareness that held beauty and hope and motion - a kind of silvery poetry, just as the body was poetry in blood and flesh and bone.

The place was a familiar as breath but as far from his life now as the moon.

Away from the bright motion of the party, she carried her sadness like a dark stone clenched in her palm.

Its impossible to control the reception of your work - the only thing you can control is the experience of writing itself, and the work you create.

Lately, the world felt fragile, like a blown egg, as if it might shatter beneath a careless touch.