The house smelled musty and damp, and a little sweet, as if it were haunted by the ghosts of long-dead cookies.

Dreams shape the world

Everything in journalism is about the detail that makes the whole, the attempts to reproduce speech patterns while not actually quoting the whole thing the person said.

Something told him that something was coming to an end. Not the world, exactly. Just the summer. There would be other summers, but there would never be one like this. Ever again.

I liked myths. They weren't adult stories and they weren't children stories. They were better than that. They just were. Adult stories never made sense, and they were slow to start. They made me feel like there were secrets, Masonic, mythic secrets, to adulthood. Why didn't adults want to read about Narnia, about secret islands and smugglers and dangerous fairies?

Never trust the storyteller. Only trust the story.

The only advice I can give you is what you're telling yourself. Only, maybe you're too scared to listen.