Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)

Picture yourself five years from now. Where do you want to be? Remember that. Every day. That's how you'll get there.

Pieces. Isn't that what all of life is anyway? Shards. Bits. Moments. Am I less because I have fewer, or do the few I have mean more?

When you are perfect, is there anywhere else to go?

Things I can feel. Hard. Soft. Rough. Smooth. But the inside kind of feel, it is all the same, like foggy mush. Is that the part of me that is still asleep? (9)

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.