Pieces. A bit for someone here. A bit there. And sometimes they don't add up to anything whole. But you are so busy dancing. Delivering. You don't have time to notice. Or are afraid to notice. And then one day you have to look. And it's true. All of your pieces fill up other people's holes. But they don't fill your own.

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

There are many words and definitions I have never lost. But some I am only just beginning to truly understand.

Maybe there was no one way to define it. Maybe there were as many shades of love as the blues of the sky.

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

Maybe the impossible is possible when you take everything else away.

When your life has had few events to occupy it, it's amazing how a simple encounter can seem like an entire three-act play.