At this moment, the story in his head was perfect. He also knew from experience that it would degenerate the second he started typing, because such was the nature of writing.

The more distressing the memory, the more persistent it's presence.

Age is a terrible thief. Just when you're getting the hang of life, it knocks your legs out from under you and stoops your back. It makes you ache and muddies your head and silently spreads cancer throughout your spouse.

Then I lie down on the horse blanket and drift into a dream about Marlena that will probably cost me my soul.

The thought has cheered me, and I'd like to hang onto that. Must protect my little pockets of happiness.

They grew fat and happy--the horses, not the children, or Marlena for that matter.

Even when I look straight into the milky blue eyes I can't find myself any more. When did I stop being me?