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but they, like me, are used to it. A person can get used to anything, if given enough time.
Poetry, she thought, wasn’t written to be analyzed; it was meant to inspire without reason, to touch without understanding.
but they were rushing, like Lon, toward long hours and profits, neglecting the things that brought beauty to the world.
That life is simply a collection of little lives, each lived one day at a time.
He cannot be both, for there aren’t enough hours, but he has yet to learn this. I wonder, as his voice fades into the background, which he will choose or whether, sadly, the choice will be made for him.
right now I feel… alone.” “Alone?” “Yes.” “Nobody’s alone.” “I’m alone,” I say as I look at my watch and think of his family sleeping in a quiet house, the place he should be, “and so are you.”
It is a contradiction—this creek—a hundred thousand years old but renewed with each rainfall. I talked to it that morning, whispered so it could hear, “You are blessed, my friend, and I am blessed, and together we meet the coming days.”
