I found this old door in Silke's backyard. I love the fact that the paint is peeling, that the door is badly splintered, that beyond the fence the mountains sit quietly. The winds blow and ravens caw. Everything feels a little rotten, a little special, a little like home.

This is the texture of imagination, the heft of the paper on which each of our stories is written. Underneath each of those stories lies the truth. Even a lie speaks plainly.