I decide that sometimes definitions are wrong. Even if they're written in a dictionary. Identities aren't always separate and distinct. Sometimes they ARE wrapped up with others. Sometimes, for a few minutes, maybe they can even be shared. And if I am ever fortunate enough to return to Mr. Bender's garden, I wonder if the birds will see that piece of him that is wrapped up in me.

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

I suppose you're right about some perspectives. Just a few weeks ago, I thought you were a dickhead.

But I am more than a name. More than they tell me

When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?

I still cry on waking. I'm not sure why. I feel nothing. Nothing I can name, anyway. It's like breathing - something that happens over which I have no control. (6)

A single gentle rain makes the grass many shades greener. So our prospects brighten . . .