Everyone knew as much as they needed to know to be happy.
Memory’s got nothing to do with years. You remember what you remember.
Waiting. Simply one person doing nothing, over time, while another approached.
Wasn’t writing a kind of soaring, an achievable form of flight, of fancy, of the imagination?
He wanted a father, and for the same reason, he wanted to be a father.
was it possible that i was, in the modern term, in denial?