...the Face Has Limited Space. My Mother

The Carnage Upon The Chessboard Of Life, Left Wounded Humans In Its Wake

So We Tell The Same Story, Over And Over. Just The Details Are Different

In The Broad Sense, As A Processing Of Everything One Hears Or Witnesses, All Fiction Is Autobiographical - Imagination Ground Through The Mill Of Memory. It's Impossible To Separate The Two Ingredients.

Children Don't Make Judgments About Which Details Are Important... A Child Captures Them All.

Remembering Bred Its Own Peculiar Sorrow. It Seemed So Unfair: That Time Should Render Both Sadness And Happiness Into A Source Of Pain.