Ordinary parties, he thought, were subtle games of sexual and social badminton.

...all them things I don't know could get you killed if I come to know them

Their silence comfortable. Something unfolding. But what? Not love, which wrenched and wounded. Not love, which came only once.

But the only rhyme he could summon for 'out' was 'sauerkraut,' which lacked poetic glory. He let it go. The right line would come in time. That was the thing about poetry. It crept up through the draws and coulees of the brain.

If you are looking for smart judging based on merit, skip the Academy Awards next year and pay attention to the Independent Spirit Awards.

I wish I knew how to quit you.

It is my feeling that a story is not finished until it is read, and that the reader finishes it through his or her life experience, prejudices, worldview and thoughts.