Apparent victims always give you the most remarkable looks—and I do write from experience.

Here is the momentum of your past choices.

What words can’t you say? What must never be expressed?

Why does solving a problem create more problems?

Nothing shakes my confusion: how are these new words?

I once ordered breakfast in Budapest and was brought a cake.

Leaving the trail you took yesterday, the one you’re expected to take tomorrow.

An inability to meet expectations: straining to compensate for lost words.

Where the sun falls and time doesn’t exist.

Here is a relentlessness that must be resisted.

When you tell stories about your home, the stranger hears a travel narrative.

The new resident, the vacationer, the lost protagonist—all possibilities for further intrigue and ambiguity and chaos, the fruit of novels.

Passing beyond what’s comfortable and known, whether that means barriers or borders or walls.

How does time assist the storyteller?