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.

Which weakness shall I tell her? “I walk funny,” I say, and she’s satisfied with that. (inside joke)

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.

Are the details of our lives who we are, or is it owning those details that makes the difference?

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

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