What need, Dunstan wondered, could someone have of the storm-filled eggshells?

Children, as I have said, use back ways and hidden paths, while adults take roads and official paths.

I was a stranger and you took me in. -Joji G. Shoji, d. 1921

She says nothing at all, but simply stares upward into the dark sky and watches, with sad eyes, the slow dance of the infinite stars.

The young woman was crying, in the way that grownups cry, keeping it inside as much as they can, and hating it when it still pushes out at the edges, making them ugly and funny-looking on the way.

In reality the world is made of thousands of groups of about five hundred people, all of whom will spend their lives bumping into each other, trying to avoid each other, and discovering each other in the same unlikely teashop in Vancouver. There is an unavoidability to this process. It's not even coincidence. It's just the way the world works, with no regard for individuals or propriety.

There's not much high and low culture any more: there's just mingling streams of art and what matters is whether it's good art or bad art.