- I’d be warmer if I ran, but the ache in the missing bone reminds me she’s right: Walk until you can run.
- “I had always detonated each thing in the very place where I found it.”
- Literary short fiction leaves me with an odd taste, a sense of missing the point that’s bitter and foreign, like the wrong sweetener in my coffee. A resigned longing for understanding that I don’t have time to tease out.
- There has to be a name for this gear, this organic way I write about ideas all the time. It used to be my job. I’m beginning to think it may just be me.
- A perfect sky.
- What if we just went for it?
- I fixate on the price, the time, the price, the work, the price, the pitch, the price.
- She has no idea what the word means, but hearing it in her tiny, innocent voice shoots ice through my veins and knots my stomach. I’m not ready for this.
- His life as an example given in metaphor. The greatest parable ever told.
- I mean to take a sip to wash down the half sandwich before bed but chug the entire liter. I wish my body and I could come to an understanding about much water and when. Neither of us appreciates the midnight pee run.
