The thing about epigraphs is that they don't mean anything until you've reached the end. Is this eerily similar to life and the wisdom our elders lay before us as we set off? Or am I stretching a metaphor? No, I think not. An epigraph sets the stage for a great novel to follow... a novel we know not yet and an epigraph we understand not.

The essence of life lies in little strands of lace flecking their essences through moments in time. The similarities that tell us this moment is one of beauty, just like the one before it. For me: warm violet mixed with sunset orange, a soft clementine really, a young purple waiting to grow bold into eggplant. Books. Always books. Real literature--that's sacred. Just Kids. A Visit from the Goon Squad. The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay. Salinger. Wild. Fang. Kerouac. Dickinson. Whitman. They imbue the soul with fresh warmth. They relieve the world's blanching of the soul. The characters call from between the pages, burning the side of my mind until I return. And then it's over. Still lingering in my mind for days. Then weeks later a line pops up. A few more years, a new one. And suddenly I understand it all better than I ever thought. I return to that one page at the start of the book, the one immediately after the dedication and for the first time, I read it. I know. I couldn't learn it until I already knew it. The words joined with my life breathe this venerable quote, at last, into movement.

That's the thing about epigraphs.