Memory Is The Basis Of Every Journey.

He Removed His Unvaluable Valuables And Dumped His Shirt, Pants, And Skivvies Into A Letter Slot.

I Realized The Shells Were Talking In A Voice I Recognized. I Should Have; It Was My Own. Had I Always Known That? I Suppose I Had. On Some Level, Unless We're Mad, I Think Most Of Us Know The Various Voices Of Our Own Imaginations. And Of Our Memories, Of Course. They Have Voices, Too. Ask Anyone Who Has Ever Lost A Limb Or A Child Or A Long-cherished Dream. Ask Anyone Who Blames Himself For A Bad Decision, Usually Made In A Raw Instant (an Instant That Is Most Commonly Red). Our Memories Have Voices, Too. Often Sad Ones That Clamor Like Raised Arms In The Dark.

Eddie Discovered One Of His Childhood's Great Truths. Grownups Are The Real Monsters, He Thought.

How Life Did Imitate Art Sometimes. And The Cruder The Art, The Closer The Imitation.

Death Is A Mystery, And Burial Is A Secret.