"In the distance, a crenellated tower sprouted long arms of orange fire . . . 'It's a beautiful castle,' I said. 'Lancelot might have sequestered his beloved there when he stole her from his king.' 'A castle only good for storing memories and old keys,' he said. 'A castle for us when we were very young,' she said, giving him a sharp look, 'because then as now we had no place to go.'" —Frederic Tuten, Self Portraits: Fictions