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.
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.
No single imagination is wild or crass or cheesy enough to compete with the collective mindlessness that propels our fascination forward.