It's too cold for anything longer than seventeen syllables.
No politics. Pass all the food. And tell us your life story.
It's not until way into the night, when the summer sun is completely gone and the sky has finally settled into blackness, that Zvi's dad emerges from the storeroom.
I spend the whole week living like a pinball; bouncing and ricocheting through life. By the week’s end, the last thing I need is someone telling me how to relax.
How can a day that seems so hostile to creativity be the wellspring from which all creativity flows?
The struggle of having opinions and hating politics wholeheartedly at the same time.
