I remember when each 4th lot was vacant and overgrown, and the landlord only go this rent when you had it, and each day was clear and good and each moment was full of promise.

I loved you like a man loves a woman he never touches, only writes to, keeps little photographs of.

she knew what she wanted and it wasn't / me. / I know more women like that than any / other kind.

I could see the road ahead of me. I was poor and I was going to stay poor. But I didn't particularly want money. I didn't know what I wanted. Yes, I did. I wanted someplace to hide out, someplace where one didn't have to do anything. The thought of being something didn't only appall me, it sickened me . . . To do things, to be part of family picnics, Christmas, the 4th of July, Labor Day, Mother's Day . . . was a man born just to endure those things and then die? I would rather be a dishwasher, return alone to a tiny room and drink myself to sleep.

mercy, I think, doesn't the human race know anything about mercy?

New Year's Eve always terrifies me.

A love like that was a serious illness, an illness from which you never entirely recover.