Stories move, stir and at times, stop us in our tracks. Books, the things we tell strangers, do this on occasion. We read of ourselves, our life echoed in the detail.
Each of us has one, a story filled with: laughter, tears, activity and relationship. Still no story is told in its entirety, it's just some echo longer.
The stories penciled in early morning fog. The stories found within a hotel lobby in San Francisco's Tenderloin district. Even the stories left behind in a Vermont sawmill pond - or begun there.
We detail our life to fill pages of a book inside each of us, the one that reads our story, one setting, one sibling within at a time. The things we tell strangers.
