The sky hides the night behind it, and shelters the people beneath from the horror that lies above.

Death is always on the way, but the fact that you don't know when it will arrive seems to take away from the finiteness of life. It's that terrible precision that we hate so much. But because we don't know, we get to think of life as an inexhaustible well. Yet everything happens a certain number of times, and a very small number, really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, some afternoon that's so deeply a part of your being that you can't even conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four or five times more. Perhaps not even. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.

Christ beside me, Christ before me, Christ behind me, Christ within me, Christ beneath me, Christ above me.

If people and their manner of living were alike everywhere, there would not be much point in moving from one place to another.

The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.

Every Tuesday night since she made it to Hollywood, we're full up.