Not that I haven't leaped up into the blinding light of competence now and then. It's sustaining the altitude that defeats me.

His outflung hands traced over the threads of his rug, passed loop by loop through some patient woman's hands. Or maybe she hadn't been patient. Maybe she'd been tired, or irritated, or distracted, or hungry, or angry. Maybe she had been dying. But her hands had kept moving, all the same.

Children might or might not be a blessing, but to create them and then fail them was surely damnation.

Too late, he recalled Miles's dictum that the reward for a job well done was usually a harder job.

If power was an illusion, wasn't weakness necessarily one also?

When the time comes to leap in faith whether you have your eyes open or closed or scream all the way down or not makes no practical difference.

Seems like half my anxiety dreams are about airports.