It's A Discovery Of A Story When

A Man In A Desert Can Hold Absence In His Cupped Hands, Knowing It Is Something That Feeds Him More Than Water.

The Past Is Still, For Us, A Place That Is Not Safely Settled.

She Entered The Story Knowing She Would Emerge From It Feeling She Had Been Immersed In The Lives Of Others, In Plots That Stretched Back Twenty Years, Her Body Full Of Sentences And Moments, As If Awaking From Sleep With A Heaviness Caused By Unremembered Dreams.

He Was A Man Who Wrote, Who Interpreted The World. Wisdom Grew Out Of Being Handed Just The Smallest Sliver Of Emotion. A Glance Could Lead To Paragraphs Of Theory.

For Echo Is The Soul Of The Voice Exciting Itself In Hollow Places.