There’s a story baked inside the restaurant down the street. A hundred-thousand of them. The cocktails are named after the bartender’s past lovers — a substantial selection of bitter and sweet. Some poor soul had a mouse run up his trouser leg while sitting at table twelve. If you were to peel away the wallpaper in the women’s washroom, you’d find “Sofia + Jerry 1963” still penned on the wall. 

That hummingbird flapping outside your window just saw your neighbour kiss her landscaper over by the hydrangeas.

The library book you checked out was in Namibia last week, where a few grains of desert sand got caught in its spine.

The bottle of wine you’re drinking? It was made from grapevines that eavesdropped on gossip about Napoleon’s exile — 200 years ago.

Life is nothing without stories.
The feelings they evoke.
What they inspire us to do.

We don’t collect things or experiences.
We collect stories.