Loose pages.

Two women at the next table, arguing gently about whether their mother liked lilacs. Neither could remember. Both were sure.

The trouble began, as most troubles do, on a Tuesday — the day of the week least equipped for surprises.

Rain on the skylight sounds different than rain on the window. Softer. As if the sky is trying not to wake you.

What would I write if I knew no one would read it? And what would I write if I knew everyone would?

the pear tree / has decided / this is the year

A child on the bus: "I'm not tired, I'm just resting my eyes for the future."

Trust the boring sentence. Sometimes the plain word is the true one.

Dreamt of a library where all the books were unfinished, and readers were invited to add a paragraph before leaving.