But if you do believe, then you already know all about magic.

Love: a single word, a wispy thing, a word no bigger or longer than an edge.

Direction, like time, is a general thing, the deprived of boundaries and borders. It is an endless process interception and reinterception, doubling back and adjusting.

If singing were a feeling it would be this, this light, this lifting, like laughing.

There is nothing else for people to do. They do not think. They feel no passion, no hatred, no sadness; they feel nothing but fear, and a desire to control. So they watch, and poke, and pry.

I'm used to a feeling of doubleness, of thinking one thing and having to do another, a constant tug-of-war.

That's what time does: We stand stubbornly like rocks while it flows all around us, believing that we are immutable - and all the time we're being carved, and shaped, and whittled away.