He stood breathing, and the more he breathed the land in, the more he was filled up with all the details of the land. He was not empty. There was more than enough here to fill him. There would always be more than enough.

I don't like to go to theaters, because I don't like the way most people behave in theaters.

Anything you dream is fiction, and anything you accomplish is science, the whole history of mankind is nothing but science fiction.

And when he died, I suddenly realized I wasn't crying for him at all, but for the things he did. I cried because he would never do them again.

Why love the woman who is your wife? Her nose breathes in the air of a world that I know; therefore I love that nose. Her ears hear music I might sing half the night through; therefore I love her ears. Her eyes delight in seasons of the land; and so I love those eyes. Her tongue knows quince, peach, chokeberry, mint and lime; I love to hear it speaking. Because her flesh knows heat, cold, affliction, I know fire, snow, and pain. Shared and once again shared experience.

Out in the world not much happened. But here in the special night, a land bricked with paper and leather anything might happen, always did.

Write a short story every week. It's not possible to write 52 bad short stories in a row.