Novels are more difficult simply because they are longer and require more juggling, but short stories are closer to perfection, if you can get the language right.

Yet she likes complications. She wishes she could turn and say: I like people who unbalance me.

Whatever you say, say nothing.

He's at ease, his body sculpted to the music, his shoulder searching the other shoulder, his right toe knowing the left knee, the height, the depth, the form, the control, the twist of his wrist, the bend of his elbow, the tilt of his neck, notes digging into arteries, and he is in the air now, forcing the legs up beyond muscular memory, one last press of the thighs, an elongation of form, a loosening of human contour, he goes higher and is skyheld.

One look at each other and it was immediately understood that they both needed a clean slate,,, The obliteration of memory.

She takes another long haul, lets the smoke settle in her lungs-- she has heard somewhere that cigarettes are good for grief. One long drag and you forget how to cry. The body too busy dealing with the poison.

That's what sons do: write to their mothers about recall, tell themselves about the past until they come to realize that they are the past.