“Every one of us is losing something precious to us,” he says after the phone stops ringing. “Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s part of what it means to be alive. But inside our heads – at least that’s where I imagine it – there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks

A dominant impulse on encountering beauty is the desire to hold on to it: to possess it and give it weight in our lives. There is an urge to say, ‘I was here, I saw this and it mattered to me.’

They were just the memories, leaking out.

Despite your best efforts, people are going to be hurt when it’s time for them to be hurt. Life is like that.

though, I realize that all I can place in the imperfect vessel of writing are imperfect memories and imperfect thoughts.