I know the truth.

Perhaps the title of this painting seems inaccurate.

My names are not important, nor his. I am a mystery he has loved for years.

Sometimes, in darkness, wings sprout from his shoulders like clouds.

It is nearly dark, a new moon barely risen. Perhaps a storm is coming; perhaps it has just passed.

Let’s say you’re walking down a street and you see a friend on the next corner.

It is November and snow will arrive before night falls.

In one of his poems, Paul Verlaine (1844-1896) wrote: "It rains in my heart / As it rains in the town...."

On most mornings, as the sun comes up, I emerge from sleep.

We could read everything literally.

For those not paying attention, Winter passed into Spring a couple of days ago.

A few months ago, there were no boats in this water.

Two days after Christmas, a storm ripped through this part of the Sierra Nevada foothills.

Spaniards are notorious for staying up late.

Dreams have enchanted me since I was a little boy. As I grow older they become even more compelling.

We played together long ago and not far from here. As we grew older, our faces wore out and we made new masks for ourselves.

Do you remember? We loved each other even in the womb?

In late Autumn, little green blades emerge from narcissus paperwhite bulbs and begin to stretch their fingers up and out towards the sun.

One hot summer afternoon, my brother Tim and I were driving across the plains of La Mancha.

Sometimes the world seems so vast it’s easy to get lost.