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March is such a fickle month. It is the seam between winter and spring—though seam suggests an even hem, and March is more like a rough line of stitches sewn by an unsteady hand, swinging wildly between January gusts and June greens. You don’t know what you’ll find, until you step outside.
Books, she has found, are a way to live a thousand lives—or to find strength in a very long one.
Being forgotten, she thinks, is a bit like going mad. You begin to wonder what is real, if you are real. After all, how can a thing be real if it cannot be remembered?
The word thrills through her. A date is something made, something planned; not a chance of opportunity, but time set aside at one point for another, a moment in the future.
“Small places make for small lives. And some people are fine with that. They like knowing where to put their feet. But if you only walk in other people’s steps, you cannot make your own way. You cannot leave a mark.”
So much of life becomes routine, but food is like music, like art, replete with the promise of something new.
“Friends are messy sometimes, aren’t they?”
“art is about ideas. And ideas are wilder than memories. They’re like
Memories are stiff, but thoughts are freer things. They throw out roots, they spread and tangle, and come untethered from their source.
“I call it weakness. To only walk in circles when you could make new roads.”
Eighteen is old enough to vote, twenty-one is old enough to drink, but thirty is old enough to make decisions.”
time always ends a second before you’re ready. That life is the minutes you want minus one.
