But my dear, so few things are fulfilled: what are most lives but a series of incomplete episodes - Truman Capote

Still, when all is said, somewhere one must belong: even the soaring falcon returns to its master's wrist.

I couldn't understand a sense of unease that multiplied until I could hear my heart beating.

But, Doc, I'm not fourteen any more, and I'm not Lulamae. But the terrible part is (and I realized it while we were standing there) I am. I'm still stealing turkey eggs and running through a brier patch. Only now I call it having the mean reds.