Love Is Art, Not Truth. It’s Like

This Lunge At Moral Fastidiousness Was Something She'd Noticed A Lot In People Around Here. They Were Not Good People. They Were Not Kind. But They Recycled Their Newspapers!

I Missed Him. Love, I Realized, Was Something Your Spine Memorized. There Was Nothing You Could Do About That.

All The Way Out I Listen To The Car Am Radio, Bad Lyrics Of Trailer Park Love, Gin And Tonic Love, Strobe Light Love, Lost And Found Love, Lost And Found And Lost Love, Lost And Lost And Lost Love—some People Were Having No Luck At All. The Dj Sounds Quick And Smooth And After-shaved, The Rest Of The World A Mess By Comparison.

Writers Have No Real Area Of Expertise. They Are Merely Generalists With A Highly Inflamed Sense Of Punctuation.

Later I Would Come To Believe That Erotic Ties Were All A Spell, A Temporary Psychosis, Even A Kind Of Violence, Or At Least They Coexisted With These States.