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.

If you can't be seven feet tall, be seven feet smart.

All the worry people expend over not existing after they die, yet nary a one ever seems to spare a moment to worry about not having existed before they were conceived. Or at all. After all, one sperm over and we would have been our sisters, and we'd never have been missed.

You have to be careful who you let define your good.

I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I don't dare stop.

One learns better than to hand one's choices to fear. With age, with every wound and scar, one learns.

If the truth doesn't save us, what does that say about us?