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vasta's reviews
376 reviews
Confidence: Stories by Russell Smith
4.0
At first, I thought that I didn’t enjoy Russell Smith’s Confidence because all the characters are the kinds of people I abhor: well-off, young, hip, upper-middle class Torontonians that don’t do anything productive with their time or money but still find it in them to complain about how life is so hard and how nobody can ever understand their existential anguish. None of them acknowledge any of their privilege, and instead use that privilege to abuse—mentally, emotionally, financially, to varying levels—those that are less fortunate than them. In between their wanton drug use and insatiable sex drives and borderline alcoholism, they whine about not being able to get everything they want, without realizing that they get so much more than the rest of the world around them.
That’s when I realized that while I didn’t enjoy Russell Smith’s Confidence, I certainly respected and admired his collection of short stories. Mr. Smith’s portrayal of Toronto’s upwardly-mobile, overly-hip, and aggressively-image-conscious class is scathing in its ridiculousness; none of the characters can be taken seriously, and because of that, the stories act as an incisive satire on our city’s urban culture. His prose is effectively curt: he does not want to elicit any sympathies for the cheating husbands or drug-addled adult students, and isn’t afraid to craft a narrative that is disdainful of their lives and actions.
The Toronto that Mr. Smith captures in his collection isn’t squalid—he does not focus on what would be typically considered the seedy underbelly of the urban environment—but is instead more the scratch marks on an overly-glossy surface: everything seems shiny and new, but is marked by flaws and blemishes. (These flaws are the failings of his characters, all manipulative and mostly-reprehensible despite their outward appearances.) It is a Toronto that makes me shudder, full of lying, cheating, and misogyny—a Toronto that I know exists but choose to hide myself from during my day-to-day life.
Despite the recoil I experienced reading about these characters, I have to recommend this short yet impactful collection of stories; Mr. Smith is a talented chronicler of the human condition, even when he is chronicling the most abhorrent among us. We should all read Russell Smith’s Confidence not just because his prose is terse and his tales are despicably captivating; we should all read Confidence to remind us of the kinds of people we should endeavour never to become.
(Full review on I Tell Stories.)
That’s when I realized that while I didn’t enjoy Russell Smith’s Confidence, I certainly respected and admired his collection of short stories. Mr. Smith’s portrayal of Toronto’s upwardly-mobile, overly-hip, and aggressively-image-conscious class is scathing in its ridiculousness; none of the characters can be taken seriously, and because of that, the stories act as an incisive satire on our city’s urban culture. His prose is effectively curt: he does not want to elicit any sympathies for the cheating husbands or drug-addled adult students, and isn’t afraid to craft a narrative that is disdainful of their lives and actions.
The Toronto that Mr. Smith captures in his collection isn’t squalid—he does not focus on what would be typically considered the seedy underbelly of the urban environment—but is instead more the scratch marks on an overly-glossy surface: everything seems shiny and new, but is marked by flaws and blemishes. (These flaws are the failings of his characters, all manipulative and mostly-reprehensible despite their outward appearances.) It is a Toronto that makes me shudder, full of lying, cheating, and misogyny—a Toronto that I know exists but choose to hide myself from during my day-to-day life.
Despite the recoil I experienced reading about these characters, I have to recommend this short yet impactful collection of stories; Mr. Smith is a talented chronicler of the human condition, even when he is chronicling the most abhorrent among us. We should all read Russell Smith’s Confidence not just because his prose is terse and his tales are despicably captivating; we should all read Confidence to remind us of the kinds of people we should endeavour never to become.
(Full review on I Tell Stories.)
Not Quite What I Was Planning: Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous and Obscure by Larry Smith, Rachel Fershleiser
4.0
How would you describe your life in six words? Writing a six-word story is hard enough; the difficulty of encapsulating a whole life in a few dozen characters feels almost impossible.
Thousands of people have tackled this daunting task, and the folks at online storytelling magazine SMITH decided to collect the best ones and publish them in a multitude of collections. The first two collections, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant, are easy to consume in a short sitting; I devoured the hundreds of six-word memoirs in both collections while lying in the hammock after lunch on a sunny afternoon. The first collection is much more powerful than the second, probably as a function of putting the best submissions in the first book without realizing that there would be enough for many more publications, but both have standout inclusions that either had me laughing, thinking, or almost in tears.
The best part of a collection of six-word memoirs is flipping through them all and seeing just how many could describe your life, as well, if you were as clever or articulate. Then there were those that were painfully close to being relatable, but with just enough distance to seem foreign.
"Civil servant answers phone after five."
"Slightly flabby, slightly fabulous, trying hard."
Some six-word memoirs were more astute observation than memoir, but still elicited smiles.
"A sundress will solve life’s woes."
What was most impressive about the collections was how six short words could elicit such a spectrum of emotions. I could go from laughing on one page to crying on the next.
"I still make coffee for two."
For quick and short reads, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant were excellent at reminding me that language, deftly used, can be immensely impactful.
It also reminded me that we don’t always have to strive for impact — sometimes, life is “nothing profound, I just sat around,” and that’s okay too.
If you’re looking for a good hammock read, I’d recommend flipping through some six-word memoirs, and then maybe trying to write one yourself.
(Originally published on I Tell Stories.)
Thousands of people have tackled this daunting task, and the folks at online storytelling magazine SMITH decided to collect the best ones and publish them in a multitude of collections. The first two collections, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant, are easy to consume in a short sitting; I devoured the hundreds of six-word memoirs in both collections while lying in the hammock after lunch on a sunny afternoon. The first collection is much more powerful than the second, probably as a function of putting the best submissions in the first book without realizing that there would be enough for many more publications, but both have standout inclusions that either had me laughing, thinking, or almost in tears.
The best part of a collection of six-word memoirs is flipping through them all and seeing just how many could describe your life, as well, if you were as clever or articulate. Then there were those that were painfully close to being relatable, but with just enough distance to seem foreign.
"Civil servant answers phone after five."
"Slightly flabby, slightly fabulous, trying hard."
Some six-word memoirs were more astute observation than memoir, but still elicited smiles.
"A sundress will solve life’s woes."
What was most impressive about the collections was how six short words could elicit such a spectrum of emotions. I could go from laughing on one page to crying on the next.
"I still make coffee for two."
For quick and short reads, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant were excellent at reminding me that language, deftly used, can be immensely impactful.
It also reminded me that we don’t always have to strive for impact — sometimes, life is “nothing profound, I just sat around,” and that’s okay too.
If you’re looking for a good hammock read, I’d recommend flipping through some six-word memoirs, and then maybe trying to write one yourself.
(Originally published on I Tell Stories.)
It All Changed in an Instant: More Six-Word Memoirs by Writers Famous & Obscure by Larry Smith, Rachel Fershleiser
4.0
How would you describe your life in six words? Writing a six-word story is hard enough; the difficulty of encapsulating a whole life in a few dozen characters feels almost impossible.
Thousands of people have tackled this daunting task, and the folks at online storytelling magazine SMITH decided to collect the best ones and publish them in a multitude of collections. The first two collections, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant, are easy to consume in a short sitting; I devoured the hundreds of six-word memoirs in both collections while lying in the hammock after lunch on a sunny afternoon. The first collection is much more powerful than the second, probably as a function of putting the best submissions in the first book without realizing that there would be enough for many more publications, but both have standout inclusions that either had me laughing, thinking, or almost in tears.
The best part of a collection of six-word memoirs is flipping through them all and seeing just how many could describe your life, as well, if you were as clever or articulate. Then there were those that were painfully close to being relatable, but with just enough distance to seem foreign.
"Civil servant answers phone after five."
"Slightly flabby, slightly fabulous, trying hard."
Some six-word memoirs were more astute observation than memoir, but still elicited smiles.
"A sundress will solve life’s woes."
What was most impressive about the collections was how six short words could elicit such a spectrum of emotions. I could go from laughing on one page to crying on the next.
"I still make coffee for two."
For quick and short reads, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant were excellent at reminding me that language, deftly used, can be immensely impactful.
It also reminded me that we don’t always have to strive for impact — sometimes, life is “nothing profound, I just sat around,” and that’s okay too.
If you’re looking for a good hammock read, I’d recommend flipping through some six-word memoirs, and then maybe trying to write one yourself.
(Originally published on I Tell Stories.)
Thousands of people have tackled this daunting task, and the folks at online storytelling magazine SMITH decided to collect the best ones and publish them in a multitude of collections. The first two collections, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant, are easy to consume in a short sitting; I devoured the hundreds of six-word memoirs in both collections while lying in the hammock after lunch on a sunny afternoon. The first collection is much more powerful than the second, probably as a function of putting the best submissions in the first book without realizing that there would be enough for many more publications, but both have standout inclusions that either had me laughing, thinking, or almost in tears.
The best part of a collection of six-word memoirs is flipping through them all and seeing just how many could describe your life, as well, if you were as clever or articulate. Then there were those that were painfully close to being relatable, but with just enough distance to seem foreign.
"Civil servant answers phone after five."
"Slightly flabby, slightly fabulous, trying hard."
Some six-word memoirs were more astute observation than memoir, but still elicited smiles.
"A sundress will solve life’s woes."
What was most impressive about the collections was how six short words could elicit such a spectrum of emotions. I could go from laughing on one page to crying on the next.
"I still make coffee for two."
For quick and short reads, Not Quite What I Was Planning and It All Changed In An Instant were excellent at reminding me that language, deftly used, can be immensely impactful.
It also reminded me that we don’t always have to strive for impact — sometimes, life is “nothing profound, I just sat around,” and that’s okay too.
If you’re looking for a good hammock read, I’d recommend flipping through some six-word memoirs, and then maybe trying to write one yourself.
(Originally published on I Tell Stories.)
Hot Pink by Adam Levin
4.0
The main reason I enjoy reading short fiction is because it is a genre that lends itself to experimentation. Unlike longer pieces of fiction, short stories provide a format that allows for play, exploration, and trial and error; it is easier to try something new and crazy in a short story because successes and failures both end after a few pages. The writer quickly moves on, and so do we, as readers.
In Hot Pink, Adam Levin experiments freely and isn’t afraid to fall flat. (He rarely does fall, in this collection.) Mr. Levin’s tinkering with form and style is akin to the rapid prototyping done by the father character in the opening story, Frankenwittgenstein: needs and appetites of the public change quickly, and Mr. Levin is doing his best to keep ahead of the changing reader expectations.
Frankenwittgenstein, like every other short story in the collection, does not end in any kind of expected way. In each short piece, the behaviors, motivations, and personalities of all the characters morph and transform, and the plot shifts and moves with their changing whims. Even in tales that span just a couple of pages, Mr. Levin deftly takes us through winding character arcs and convoluted storylines until we come to resolutions that are unexpected, unorthodox, and improbably entertaining.
The three standout stories in Hot Pink — Considering the Bittersweet End of Susan Falls, Jane Tell, and the titular Hot Pink — are perfect examples of Mr. Levin’s ability to use prose to take us inside the minds of each of his conflicted characters. None of the characters are true protagonists or antagonists, but instead complex, nuanced beings that act and listen and learn based on what’s going on in the world around them.
Mr. Levin uses vivid, almost dramatic (but never purple) language to help us get inside the heads of his heroes and villains — often, these are both the same person. The imagery that lingers in the minds of the characters of his stories also linger in ours, from the Eggs Jiselle that Susan Falls doesn’t get to eat, to the hand around the throat of Jane Tell that excites her emotionally and physically. We feel what each person in the story feels, for better or for worse.
Not every tale in Hot Pink is perfect; some are too experimental, too disjointed to fully resonate, but they all reflect Mr. Levin’s willingness to try something new, to use prose to innovate in radical ways. The format of short fiction is perfect for this experimentation, and Mr. Levin embraces it fully.
Even when it borders on the avant-garde and ungraspable, Hot Pink is gripping. When it resonates, the collection is astonishing. I’ll have to revisit it, soon.
(Originally published on I Tell Stories.)
In Hot Pink, Adam Levin experiments freely and isn’t afraid to fall flat. (He rarely does fall, in this collection.) Mr. Levin’s tinkering with form and style is akin to the rapid prototyping done by the father character in the opening story, Frankenwittgenstein: needs and appetites of the public change quickly, and Mr. Levin is doing his best to keep ahead of the changing reader expectations.
Frankenwittgenstein, like every other short story in the collection, does not end in any kind of expected way. In each short piece, the behaviors, motivations, and personalities of all the characters morph and transform, and the plot shifts and moves with their changing whims. Even in tales that span just a couple of pages, Mr. Levin deftly takes us through winding character arcs and convoluted storylines until we come to resolutions that are unexpected, unorthodox, and improbably entertaining.
The three standout stories in Hot Pink — Considering the Bittersweet End of Susan Falls, Jane Tell, and the titular Hot Pink — are perfect examples of Mr. Levin’s ability to use prose to take us inside the minds of each of his conflicted characters. None of the characters are true protagonists or antagonists, but instead complex, nuanced beings that act and listen and learn based on what’s going on in the world around them.
Mr. Levin uses vivid, almost dramatic (but never purple) language to help us get inside the heads of his heroes and villains — often, these are both the same person. The imagery that lingers in the minds of the characters of his stories also linger in ours, from the Eggs Jiselle that Susan Falls doesn’t get to eat, to the hand around the throat of Jane Tell that excites her emotionally and physically. We feel what each person in the story feels, for better or for worse.
Not every tale in Hot Pink is perfect; some are too experimental, too disjointed to fully resonate, but they all reflect Mr. Levin’s willingness to try something new, to use prose to innovate in radical ways. The format of short fiction is perfect for this experimentation, and Mr. Levin embraces it fully.
Even when it borders on the avant-garde and ungraspable, Hot Pink is gripping. When it resonates, the collection is astonishing. I’ll have to revisit it, soon.
(Originally published on I Tell Stories.)
Housekeeping by Marilynne Robinson
5.0
There will come a time in a conversation with a stranger or a new friend when they will ask me why my work has taken me to so many different countries, why I never stayed in place for too long. The answer I always give, somewhat cheekily, somewhat accurately, is that “I get antsy after more than three years in one city.”
It has been five years since I last moved back to Toronto. Before that, for more than a decade, I jumped from city to city every two or three years, always looking for the next new thing, looking for a new adventure or challenge or just a change of pace and scenery.
About a year after moving back to Toronto, a former friend once laughed and called me a transient, a drifter. He chuckled as he said, in jest and in good nature, that if I had been born a few decades earlier, I would have been among those that rode the freight trains, jumping off in a new town and setting up life there, only to pack up and leave a short while later.
***
There has been much written about transience in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping; a quick search online reveals academic papers on the subject that are longer than the novel itself. It’s true that the story is primarily about moving, and moving on—what struck me most is how the book is also about the difficulty of staying home.
Our protagonist is caught between these two worlds, and perhaps perpetually caught between many worlds: Ruthie never really finds her place until the end of the novel, and even then, that place is fleeting. Ruthie exists in liminality, between childhood and adulthood, between frivolity and seriousness, between feeling and thinking, between bad mistakes and good judgment, between carelessness and responsibility, between the desire to run and the desire to stay.
Mrs. Robinson’s prose captures the limbo beautifully. She uses words like brushstrokes on a canvas. The story is more painting than text: it changes and morphs and reveals new insight upon every read depending on how close you are to it that day. At times, you feel enveloped by the bleakness of Fingerbone; at others, you sit away from it, watching the town in wonder as its inhabitants go about their lives with a sorrowful merriment.
As readers, we are never in one place. Mrs. Robinson makes us feel the transience of the characters of the novel through her prose, by making the reader drift through space and time and perspective. We are constantly moving, and even when we are staying still, we await the next time we will be displaced. The descriptions are vivid, memorable; the amount of time we are able to linger upon those descriptions are short and fleeting. With every turn of the page, we are led to wonder what adventures lie beyond the bridge across the lake, yet still want to stay in Fingerbone for a little while longer.
Housekeeping is masterful at telling this story of transience, not because it is about always leaving to go somewhere new, but because it places us in the grey zone between the old and the new, the then and the now, the here and the there. It is a tale of liminality more than transience, of the embrace of uncertainty.
***
There’s a line, about halfway through Housekeeping, that reads: “It seemed to me that if she could remain transient here, she would not have to leave.”
It is a short passage that is easy to quickly read past, but it is one I came back to, again and again. It reminded me of a revelation that came to me when I lived in the US capital.
It was in Washington DC when I first realized that it was easy for me to live a life where all my possessions could fit into two or three boxes. It was in Washington DC when I first realized that I had remained, for many years before that, transient in the cities where I lived.
DC is the most transient city I have ever known: nobody there stays, but instead “passes through.” Sometimes, they pass through for a few months, or a couple of years, and sometimes, they pass through for a few decades, but there were very few people that I might that were born in the District and planned to die there too.
Sylvie, in Housekeeping, is also passing through. We did not know for just how long she would stay, but we knew that one day, she would hop on the train and ride the tracks across the bridge to a new adventure. In the meantime, she would act erratically and oddly—transiently—while she remained in Fingerbone with her nieces.
For years before my recent return to Toronto, I was only passing through every city in which I lived. I knew that I would soon be gone, but didn’t know quite when that time would come. Instead, I would live minimally, with few possessions, and would spend my time as an explorer in my own town. To some, perhaps I was erratic and odd; to myself, I was simply transient, prepared at any moment to leave, but willing myself to stay.
I am no longer transient here. While I know that, realistically, I will undoubtedly be somewhere new soon, I no longer spend my time in expectation of that move. The liminality has been replaced by a sense of settlement: I feel settled in place, in mind, in love, in life, and no longer caught between one space and another.
(Full review on ITellStories.org)
It has been five years since I last moved back to Toronto. Before that, for more than a decade, I jumped from city to city every two or three years, always looking for the next new thing, looking for a new adventure or challenge or just a change of pace and scenery.
About a year after moving back to Toronto, a former friend once laughed and called me a transient, a drifter. He chuckled as he said, in jest and in good nature, that if I had been born a few decades earlier, I would have been among those that rode the freight trains, jumping off in a new town and setting up life there, only to pack up and leave a short while later.
***
There has been much written about transience in Marilynne Robinson’s Housekeeping; a quick search online reveals academic papers on the subject that are longer than the novel itself. It’s true that the story is primarily about moving, and moving on—what struck me most is how the book is also about the difficulty of staying home.
Our protagonist is caught between these two worlds, and perhaps perpetually caught between many worlds: Ruthie never really finds her place until the end of the novel, and even then, that place is fleeting. Ruthie exists in liminality, between childhood and adulthood, between frivolity and seriousness, between feeling and thinking, between bad mistakes and good judgment, between carelessness and responsibility, between the desire to run and the desire to stay.
Mrs. Robinson’s prose captures the limbo beautifully. She uses words like brushstrokes on a canvas. The story is more painting than text: it changes and morphs and reveals new insight upon every read depending on how close you are to it that day. At times, you feel enveloped by the bleakness of Fingerbone; at others, you sit away from it, watching the town in wonder as its inhabitants go about their lives with a sorrowful merriment.
As readers, we are never in one place. Mrs. Robinson makes us feel the transience of the characters of the novel through her prose, by making the reader drift through space and time and perspective. We are constantly moving, and even when we are staying still, we await the next time we will be displaced. The descriptions are vivid, memorable; the amount of time we are able to linger upon those descriptions are short and fleeting. With every turn of the page, we are led to wonder what adventures lie beyond the bridge across the lake, yet still want to stay in Fingerbone for a little while longer.
Housekeeping is masterful at telling this story of transience, not because it is about always leaving to go somewhere new, but because it places us in the grey zone between the old and the new, the then and the now, the here and the there. It is a tale of liminality more than transience, of the embrace of uncertainty.
***
There’s a line, about halfway through Housekeeping, that reads: “It seemed to me that if she could remain transient here, she would not have to leave.”
It is a short passage that is easy to quickly read past, but it is one I came back to, again and again. It reminded me of a revelation that came to me when I lived in the US capital.
It was in Washington DC when I first realized that it was easy for me to live a life where all my possessions could fit into two or three boxes. It was in Washington DC when I first realized that I had remained, for many years before that, transient in the cities where I lived.
DC is the most transient city I have ever known: nobody there stays, but instead “passes through.” Sometimes, they pass through for a few months, or a couple of years, and sometimes, they pass through for a few decades, but there were very few people that I might that were born in the District and planned to die there too.
Sylvie, in Housekeeping, is also passing through. We did not know for just how long she would stay, but we knew that one day, she would hop on the train and ride the tracks across the bridge to a new adventure. In the meantime, she would act erratically and oddly—transiently—while she remained in Fingerbone with her nieces.
For years before my recent return to Toronto, I was only passing through every city in which I lived. I knew that I would soon be gone, but didn’t know quite when that time would come. Instead, I would live minimally, with few possessions, and would spend my time as an explorer in my own town. To some, perhaps I was erratic and odd; to myself, I was simply transient, prepared at any moment to leave, but willing myself to stay.
I am no longer transient here. While I know that, realistically, I will undoubtedly be somewhere new soon, I no longer spend my time in expectation of that move. The liminality has been replaced by a sense of settlement: I feel settled in place, in mind, in love, in life, and no longer caught between one space and another.
(Full review on ITellStories.org)
Pool by Ji-Hyeon Lee
5.0
There is a certain kind of friendship that is wordless, fleeting, transient, yet deep and memorable at the same time. I like to call these “subway friendships.”
If you’ve ever taken a ride on the public transit system of any major urban area, and have done so without having earbuds plugged into your ear or your head buried in a book or in your phone, you have undoubtedly made one or more of these friendships in your lifetime. The pattern is simple: you notice something funny, or interesting, or slightly unique happening on the subway or bus or streetcar, and smile; you quickly realize that someone else in a seat across the way has noticed it too, and you both make the brief eye contact of mutual recognition. Your subway friendship has begun.
In the best of these friendships, you both continue to notice odd or quirky or fascinating things, and you both look to each other each time to see if the other has noticed as well. If she hasn’t, you nod in the direction of the diversion, and she smiles back in thanks. After a few stops, her stop arrives, and you both exchange a quick glance before she exits the doors; it is a recognition of the wordless, fleeting friendship you shared for a few short minutes of the day, but that will linger on for a few more minutes still, if not hours.
Pool, a gorgeously-illustrated book about two shy children who meet at a swimming pool and escape the hubbub of the crowd around them, is basically the story of such a subway friendship, but the setting is instead underwater.
Like a subway friendship, there are no words in the book, but instead a series of adventures and explorations told through JiHyeon Lee’s stunning illustrations. We are encouraged to cherish the silence as we travel through a surreal underwater world with the two new friends, discovering plants and creatures, and enjoying the whimsy that comes from the imagination of children. It is this silence that makes the book so powerful, so resonant: words do not need to be exchanged for the friendship to be forged, and for the exploration to occur.
The underwater friendship in JiHyeon Lee’s Pool captures the best part of a subway friendship: it is fleeting and wordless, but it reminds you that connections can be made anywhere and at any time, and that it is those connections, short-lived as they may be, that bring whimsy and color to our days.
If you’ve ever taken a ride on the public transit system of any major urban area, and have done so without having earbuds plugged into your ear or your head buried in a book or in your phone, you have undoubtedly made one or more of these friendships in your lifetime. The pattern is simple: you notice something funny, or interesting, or slightly unique happening on the subway or bus or streetcar, and smile; you quickly realize that someone else in a seat across the way has noticed it too, and you both make the brief eye contact of mutual recognition. Your subway friendship has begun.
In the best of these friendships, you both continue to notice odd or quirky or fascinating things, and you both look to each other each time to see if the other has noticed as well. If she hasn’t, you nod in the direction of the diversion, and she smiles back in thanks. After a few stops, her stop arrives, and you both exchange a quick glance before she exits the doors; it is a recognition of the wordless, fleeting friendship you shared for a few short minutes of the day, but that will linger on for a few more minutes still, if not hours.
Pool, a gorgeously-illustrated book about two shy children who meet at a swimming pool and escape the hubbub of the crowd around them, is basically the story of such a subway friendship, but the setting is instead underwater.
Like a subway friendship, there are no words in the book, but instead a series of adventures and explorations told through JiHyeon Lee’s stunning illustrations. We are encouraged to cherish the silence as we travel through a surreal underwater world with the two new friends, discovering plants and creatures, and enjoying the whimsy that comes from the imagination of children. It is this silence that makes the book so powerful, so resonant: words do not need to be exchanged for the friendship to be forged, and for the exploration to occur.
The underwater friendship in JiHyeon Lee’s Pool captures the best part of a subway friendship: it is fleeting and wordless, but it reminds you that connections can be made anywhere and at any time, and that it is those connections, short-lived as they may be, that bring whimsy and color to our days.