When we talk about our lives, long or short, brief and tragic or enduring beyond comprehension, we impose a continuity on them, and that continuity is a lie.

“I wanted shelves for my books, and a finer chair for this desk. Of course there…”

“I have lived lies. I have done it again and again. I live lies because I cannot…”

“Come on, show me all you can do.”

“A singer can shatter glass with the proper high note," he said, "but the simple…”