Your clothes smell heavily of clothing. Your den is filled with low-hanging palls of fresh air. The only rattle in your car is the sound of toll change in the ashtray. The absence of telltale tobacco stains on your shirt collar tells the tale - you've licked the smoking habit.

Often it's just a short swim from the shipwreck of your life to the island paradise of your dreams, assuming you don't drown in the metaphor.

I have never considered it my business to disabuse someone of a belief that makes life tolerable for them.

Sometimes two people need to step apart and make a space between that each might see the other anew, in a glance across a room or silhouetted against the moon.

Parenthood is the passing of a baton, followed by a lifelong disagreement as to who dropped it.

My quest for cosmic understanding is a book I have picked up and put down many times, always forgetting to insert a bookmark.

When I am gone, my love, do not look for me in the places we used to go to together. Look for me in the places we always planned to go to together.