Sometimes fiction is more easily understood than true events. Reality is often pathetic.

When the moon covers the sun, we have a solar eclipse. What do you call it when birds do that?

And still everything’s the same, even though I did my best to get as far away as I could.

Novels are food for the leftover hours of life, the in-between times, the moments of waiting.

Sometimes fiction is more easily understood than true events. Reality is often pathetic.

People unconsciously want to reveal their inner urges.

Why does nothing change, even when you set out for a faraway place?