Then you are a poet?' she asked, fingering the flyer in her pocket.'No not at all,' he waved his hand. 'I am merely a character in a poem.
Just cuz you get to the end doesn’t mean you know what happened.
Time could heal, but it wouldn't make wrongs go away. Time came back like a reminder. Time folded with memory. In a moment, everything could fold itself up, and time stand still.
No single imagination is wild or crass or cheesy enough to compete with the collective mindlessness that propels our fascination forward.
Everyone’s got a version of the same story, or maybe there’s no such thing as the same story; it’s a different story every time.