The Smiths are singing and someone says "Turn that gay angst music off.

All of my books come from pain.

I've forgotten who I had lunch with earlier, and even more important, where.

Hello, Halberstam," Owen says, walking by. Hello, Owen," I say, admiring the way he's styled and slicked back his hair, with a part so even and sharp it... devastates me and I make a mental note to ask him where he purchases his hair-care products, which kind of mousse he uses, my final guesses after mulling over the possibilities being Ten-X.

Disintegration---I'm taking it in stride.

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

Fear never shows up and the party ends early.