This is the middle of my life, I think of it as a place, like the middle of a river, the middle of a bridge, halfway across, halfway over. I'm supposed to have accumulated things by now: possessions, responsibilities, achievements, experience and wisdom. I'm supposed to be a person of substance.

The newspaper journalists like to believe the worst; they can sell more papers that way, as one of them told me himself; for even upstanding and respectable people dearly love to read ill of others.

Don't let the bastards grind you down.

I want everything back, the way it was. But there is no point to it, this wanting.

and each of his voices left his body in a different colored soul and floated up towards the sun still singing.

I planned my death carefully, unlike my life, which meandered along from one thing to another, despite my feeble attempts to control it.

Tell what is yours to tell. Let others tell what is theirs.