"How can you read it so fast? You'll miss the details," she told me. I thought about it, but still finished the book later that night. I don't miss the details, though. That's for the second reading, or the third; each time, a new adventure wrapped in an old friend. I could try to explain to her how the experience grows richer with each reading, but I get the feeling from the look in her eye that she already understands.

More prose

"Meet me at the horizon," she told me, as we watched the sun rise over the lake. I liked to imagine the water belonged to the ocean, and I could lose myself in the vast expanse of it all. The sand we were sitting on probably got here in a dump truck, and was only seven inches deep, covering the hard brown clay and dirt underneath, but it completed the illusion. She completed the illusion. We lay there until I felt her drift away into unconsciousness. I think I could have stared at her forever. Instead, I gathered her in my arms and reassured her as I took her back to the car, drove her home, and left her in her bed, alone. Maybe there existed a world where we could be together. Maybe one day I would find the spot where the earth meets the sky, and in that place we could exist. Maybe one day I would stop searching for that place. Maybe I never will.