These are some random musings I've had while on the go. That's what notebooks are for:
It's not a simple or a clear image, but it's still the one beneath my eyelids.
They were people-watching so intently that I made up stories about the stories they made up of other people.
If our lives are just storybooks and you can have your way with words, can you have your way with anything?
Most of the time the bell rings before you're ready. You have to bend yourself to reality, but can you ever bend realities to yourself?
When I read a book from a used bookstore, there's this unique smell to it: as if I'm getting two stories in one.
