I have always been caught by the pull of the unremarkable, by the easily missed, infinitely nourishing beauty of the mundane.

I am, of course, romanticizing; a chronic tendency of mine.

We think of mortality so little these days... I thought of the stern Victorian determination to keep death in mind, the uncompromising tombstones. Remember, pilgrim, as you pass by, As you are now so once was I: As I am so will you be.

I am not good at noticing when I'm happy, except in retrospect.

There was a time when I believed I was the redeemed one, the boy borne safely home on the ebb of whatever freak tide carried Peter and Jamie away. Not any more. In ways too dark and crucial to be called metaphorical, I never left that wood.

What I am telling you, before you begin my story, is this -- two things: I crave truth. And I lie.

I weaned myself on the nostalgia equivalent of methadone (less addictive, less obvious, less likely to make you crazy): missing what I had never had.