“Before the sparrow arrived, you had almost stopped thinking about flight. Then, last winter, it soared through the sky and landed in front of you, or more precisely on the windowsill of the covered balcony adjoining your bedroom. You knew the grimy window panes were caked with dead ants and dust, and smelt as sour as the curtains. But the sparrow wasn’t put off. It jumped inside the covered balcony and ruffled its feathers, releasing a sweet smell of tree bark into the air. Then it flew into your bedroom, landed on your chest and stayed there like a cold egg.”

“Outside a sparrow was swaying back and forth on the branch of a birch tree. A tiny drop fell away from beneath his tail. Ruffling its feather triumphantly, it soared off toward a destination unknown.”

“Let unexpected incidents roll off you like raindrops dancing down your bedroom window.”

“The sparrows jumped before they knew how to fly, and they learned to fly only because they had jumped”

“Only a friend or a giraffe would stick his neck out for you. But only a giraffe would eat all the leaves off your tree so he could peek in your second story bedroom window.”

“Secrets and lies, they eat your insides until all you have left is a hard thin skin that covers you like the shell of one of those eggs you poke a little hole in and draw out its eggy contents before you dye it for Easter.”