In the palm of my hand
An empire summoned
And as it was born
All the substance crumbled
It was a vain attempt
At the meaning of life
And I should have better ways
Of spending my time

stories we tell

When you are in the middle of a story it isn't a story at all, but only a confusion; a dark roaring, a blindness, a wreckage of shattered glass and splintered wood; like a house in a whirlwind, or else a boat crushed by the icebergs or swept over the rapids, and all aboard powerless to stop it. It's only afterwards that it becomes anything like a story at all. When you are telling it, to yourself or to someone else.


Margaret Atwood, Alias Grace

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trailer Stories We Tell