The past is useless. That explains why it is past.

There's little to see, but things leave an impression. It's a matter of time and repetition. As something old wears thin or out, something new wears in. The handle on the pump, the crank on the churn, the dipper floating in the bucket, the latch on the screen, the door on the privy, the fender on the stove, the knees of the pants and the seat of the chair, the handle of the brush and the lid to the pot exist in time but outside taste; they wear in more than they wear out. It can't be helped. It's neither good nor bad. It's the nature of life.

We're in the world of communications more and more, tough we're in communication less and less.

The past is useless. That explains why it is past.

The camera eye is the one in the middle of our forehead, combining how we see with what there is to be seen.

In the blur of the photograph, time leaves its gleaming, snail-like track.

Writing has made me rich-not in money but in a couple hundred characters out there, whose pursuits and anguish and triumphs I've shared. I am unspeakably grateful at the life I have come to lead.