I hope you never hear those words. Your mom. She died. They are different than other words. They are too big to fit in your ears. They belong to some strange, heavy, powerful language that pounds away at the side of your head, a wrecking ball coming at you again and again, until finally, the words crack a hole large enough to fit inside your brain. And in so doing, they split you apart.

And I suppose tapes are a desperate attempt to steal something from Death's suitcase.

But our eyes are different, what you see ain't what I see.

What will you do with the time you have left?

Accept the past as past, without denying it or discarding it.

In a newspaper, you only have so much room. It teaches you the value of getting to the point, of not pampering yourself with your glorious writing. I've always been much more interested in one powerful sentence that stays with you. That's my style.

Kids chase the love that eludes them.