At times the whole sky was ringed in shooting points and puckers of light gathering and falling, pulsing, fading, rhythmical as breathing. All of a piece. As if the sky were a pattern of nerves and our thought and memories traveled across it. As if the sky were one gigantic memory for us all.

The length of sky is just about the size of my ignorance. Pure and wide.

Can you stop your mother from singing to you? Who would do such a thing?

Columbus only discovered that he was in some new place. He didn't discover America.

Things which do not grow and change are dead things.

Death is the least civilized rite of passage.

We passed over in a sweep of sorrow that would persist into our small forever. We just keep going.