I daydream about a high school where everybody plays the harmonica: the students, the teachers, the principal, the janitor and the cook in the cafeteria.

I'll tell you about it because I am here and you are distant.

If you are thinking about something that happened a long time ago: Somebody asked you a question and you did not know the answer. That is my name.

I didn't know the full dimensions of forever, but I knew it was longer than waiting for Christmas to come.

We could see the children's toys here and there, and we saw a game that the children had made themselves out of dirt, deer antlers and abalone shells, but the game was so strange that only children could tell what it was. Perhaps it wasn't a game at all, only the grave of a game.

All of us have a place in history. Mine is clouds.

The bees in my stomach are dead and getting used to it.