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.

I created an icicle sculpture in the snow. White on white.

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

Sometimes there's not a better way. Sometimes there's only the hard way.

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

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

it is amazin, she thinks, how simple appearances can be created - a rush, a smile, a new coat of paint, a slow, calm voice, a hug, a new dress - a resolve to keep out questions and cling to secrets