We All Have The Same Dreams.

Memory Fades, Memory Adjusts, Memory Conforms To What We Think We Remember.

To Cure Jealousy Is To See It For What It Is, A Dissatisfaction With Self.

Mourning Has Its Place But Also Its Limits.

Was There Ever In Anyone's Life Span A Point Free In Time, Devoid Of Memory, A Night When Choice Was Any More Than The Sum Of All The Choices Gone Before?

I Start A Book And I Want To Make It Perfect, Want It To Turn Every Color, Want It To Be The World. Ten Pages In, I've Already Blown It, Limited It, Made It Less, Marred It. That's Very Discouraging. I Hate The Book At That Point. After A While I Arrive At An Accommodation: Well, It's Not The Ideal, It's Not The Perfect Object I Wanted To Make, But Maybe—if I Go Ahead And Finish It Anyway—i Can Get It Right Next Time. Maybe I Can Have Another Chance.