Mom flipped through the magazines like the pages needed to be slapped.

It seemed to happen in springs, the revealing of things.

I could feel the tears beginning to collect in my throat again, but I pushed them apart, away from each other. Tears are only a threat in groups.

I give boring people something to discuss over corn.

I want to be violated by insight.

As a writer you ask yourself to dream while awake.

We hit the sidewalk, and dropped hands. How I wished, right then, that the whole world was a street.