Eventually, everything gets stuck between a pair of parentheses or buried in the bottom of a trunk.
Here's to another year and let's hope it's above ground.
Our friendship is made up of these brief frenzied exchanges, but the quality of our conversation, for all its feverish outpouring, is genuine.
The silence is perfect, and yet a torment.
This is why I read novels: so I can escape my own unrelenting monologue.
A childhood is what anyone wants to remember of it. It leaves behind no fossils, except perhaps in fiction.