We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations.
(Abbaye de St Antoine, 15ième, Drôme des collines, France)
"She died doing what she loved: telling someone the difference between your and you’re."
She reached out as far as she could across the limitations of her true nature to find the language appropriate to the vivacious young woman she longed to be thought, but the words which she imagined such a young woman might have uttered with sincerity sounded false on her own lips. And what little she allowed herself to say was said in a strained tone, in which her ingrained timidity paralysed her impulse towards audacity and was interspersed with, ‘You’re sure you aren’t cold? You aren’t too hot? You don’t want to sit and read by yourself?’