Old age is having the name of a chiropractor in your wallet. It's cutting out coupons for the zeal of discounted small items and the practice of fine motor skills.
We're conduits for the universe's desire to think about itself.
There are pockets of time, she thinks, where every sense rings like a bell, where the world brims with fleeting grace.
But everything is how it should be. How's that for wisdom?
The forger was too exacting, too superficial. Only the real artist has the false beginning.
