I May Not Have A

Eskimos Maybe? Believed Stars Were Holes In The Sky Where People Who Died Could Peek Through At You

Fiction Is Like That, Once It Is Released Into The World: Contagious, Persistent. Like The Contents Of Pandora's Box, A Story That's Freely Given Can't Be Contained Anymore. It Becomes Infectious, Spreading From The Person Who Created It To The Person Who Listens, And Passes It On.

If You Live In Each Other's Pockets Long Enough, You're Related.

The First Time Someone I Loved Left Me Behind...i Didn't Know How My Family Would Balance. We Had Been Such A Sturdy Little End Table, Four Solid Legs. I Was Sure We Would Now Be Off-kilter, Always Unstable. Until One Day I Looked More Closely, And Realized That We Had Simply Become A Stool.

Your Hand Fits Mine Like The Last Piece Of A Jigsaw Puzzle