We shared the smile of recognizing ourselves in each other, how many imposters do I have? Do we all make the same mistakes, or has one of us gotten it right, or even just a bit less wrong, am I the imposter?

The closer one gets to realizing his destiny, the more that destiny becomes his true reason for being.

We saw a cloudwall hung many miles to the east and hawks floating in the unforced motion that makes you think they’ve been up there, the same two birds since bible times.

A writer always begins by being too complicated—he’s playing at several games at once.

Written By Jorge Luis Borges

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