"But once in a while there's a great dynamite-burst of flying glass and brick and splinters through the front wall and somebody stalks over the rubble, seizes me by the throat and gently says, 'I will not let you go until you set me, in words, on paper.'" – Richard Bach
Dec. 5, 2012 – 12:31 a.m.
When my beautiful city began to rot and stink around me, I thought about the first time we laughed – at the same time, we really laughed. I imagined it felt like birds flying.