You’ve been wondering lately when the moment is that somebody is truly lost to you.

There are stories told to him only at this time of year. Fantastic, magical stories, the old Hollier in the woods finding only three red berries, which peel back in the night to reveal gifts of frankincense, gold and myrrh, Christmas in hot deserts, dust-blown countries, the necklace of tears, and the story of the robin.

Those partial to drink were hiding faults and dishonesty. They were sloppy souls, even the ones with pleasant manners and fine noses.

The man had added to his body in a way that was brave and timeless and beyond adornment.

All innocent mechanisms are muddied up with experience. Children become less and less translucent. Layers of guile and suspicion grow. It's the law of paternal disenchantments.

People went through life like well handled jugs, collecting chips and scrapes and stains from wear and tear, from holding and pouring life.

The man had added to his body in a way that was brave and timeless and beyond adornment.

All innocent mechanisms are muddied up with experience. Children become less and less translucent. Layers of guile and suspicion grow. It's the law of paternal disenchantments.