It can take years to mold a dream. It takes only a fraction of a second for it to be shattered.

Where we are going, I don't know. It doesn't seem to be the place that is important but the steps in between.

Words have longer lives than people.

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

Chance. It weaves through our lives like a golden thread, sometimes knotting, tangling, and breaking along the way. Loose threads are left hanging, but the in and out, the back and forth continues, the weaving goes on. It doesn't stop.

Maybe staying on the surface keeps her from returning to a place where she can't breathe.

There are a lot of memories we imagine. We play them over and over in our minds, trying to orchestrate our movements and words to perfection. Or maybe it's just that I've lived inside of my head more than any other person in the history of the world. Maybe none of us can really predict how we will act at any give moment. Maybe we're all at the mercy of circumstance in spite of our well-laid plans.