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

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.

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

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

Do certain events in our lives leave a permanent mark, freezing a piece of us in time, and that becomes a touchstone that we measure the rest of our lives against?

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.