Why do our politicians put warnings on cigarette packs and not on their own foreheads?

It was very sad, he thought. The things men carried inside. The things men did or felt they had to do.

A lot like yesterday, a lot like never.

I'm skimming across the surface of my own history, moving fast, riding the melt beneath the blades, doing loops and spins, and when I take a high leap into the dark and come down thirty years later, I realize it is as Tim trying to save Timmy's life with a story.

They carried all they could bear, and then some, including a silent awe for the terrible power of the things they carried.

Certain blood was being shed for uncertain reasons.

The thing about a story is that you dream it as you tell it, hoping that others might then dream along with you, and in this way memory and imagination and language combine to make spirits in the head. There is the illusion of aliveness.