I suppose you're right about some perspectives. Just a few weeks ago, I thought you were a dickhead.

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

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.

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?

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

My memory is coming back. It is curious how it comes. Each day, a rush of pieces, loosely connected, unimportant bits, snake through me. They click, click, click into my brain, like links being snapped together. And then they are done. A small chain of memories that fill in one tiny part of my life. They come out of nowhere, and most are not important.

When is a cell finally too small to hold our essence?