We all have a dark place in us. It's what we do with it and the choice we make.

My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.

Whatever you choose for your stationery is your favorite color because it's where you pour your heart out.

I just think perfection and lasting through the ages is for Greek statues, not us mere humans.

The world before us is a postcard, and I imagine the story we are writing on it.

It's other people who make us wise, and I haven't known nearly enough.

Observing and understanding are two different things.