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All he had ever wanted was to tell—in the best possible words, arranged in the best possible order—the stories inside him.
Stories are the wells we dip into to be reminded of who we are, and the ways we reassure ourselves that, however obscure we may appear to others, we are actually important, even crucial, to the ongoing drama of survival: personal, societal, and even as a species.
perpetually rushing and with a baseline level of ambient stress that would probably have alarmed anyone outside the five boroughs.
he would find himself crouching before some terrible approaching wave, waiting to drown.
He simply could not think of how to go forward, and that, ironically, was what made him realize the only place left to go was back.
It caught him and let him go, then it caught him again, and held.
Truth being stranger than fiction was, itself, a truth universally acknowledged, but if that was true why did we always fight so hard against it?
