I needed something--the distraction of another life--to alleviate fear.

What do you do?' she asks, holding out the vest. 'What do you do?' 'What do you do?' she asks, her voice shaking. 'Don't ask me, please. Okay, Clay?' 'Why not?' She sits on the mattress after I get up. Muriel screams. 'Because... I don't know,' she sighs. I look at her and don't feel anything and walk out with my vest.

I'm on the verge of tears by the time we arrive at Pastels since I'm positive we won't get seated but the table is good, and relief that is almost tidal in scope washes over me in an awesome wave.

All of my books come from pain.

Why was I holding on to something that would never be mine? But isn't that what people do?

I feel like I'm not smart enough to answer the questions I'm asked.

History is sinking and only a very few seem dimly aware that things are getting bad.