There are ways of being abandoned even when your parents are right there.

Now that I knew fear, I also knew it was not permanent. As powerful as it was, its grip on me would loosen. It would pass.

He had a thousand-year-old stare.

When we are young, the words are scattered all around us. As they are assembled by experience, so also are we, sentence by sentence, until the story takes shape.

The greatest wisdom doesn't know itself. The richest plan is not to have one.

If, as I suspect, my body survives by uttering itself over and over again, then I have some questions. If [I] am one word, so are my daughters, so are all of us in strings and loops. Each life is one short word slowly uttered.

So what is wild? What is wilderness? What are dreams but an internal wilderness and what is desire but a wildness of the soul?