“… A kind of navigational star, as in in the sky, something high and untouchable and miraculously beautiful in the sort of distant way that reminded you always of how ordinary an unbeautiful and incapable of miracles you your own self were”—Mister Squishy by David Foster Wallace (via grandiosedepravity)
My Dad likes to quote Neil Young whenever my birthday comes up in conversation. “You can’t be twenty on Sugar Mountain,” he says. He’s right, unless he’s talking about the smoke shop with the same name on Court Street in Binghamton.
My mother found a grey hair on my head today. Not a sun-bleached blonde strand. A single, light silver strand, nearly white. She plucked it out and handed to me. “You’re going grey, kid!” she laughed.