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.

Everything was fabulous, even our breakdowns.

He might have been naive, but he didn't care; he said he's rather die with his heart on his sleeve than end up another cynic.

There's a part of me that thinks perhaps we go on existing in a place even after we've left it.

She's always thought that one of the beauties of New York is that you can be from anywhere and within moments of landing its yours.

I don't really know what an adverb is. A dangling participle? That sounds really rude. I don't know what character is, really. Plot seems vaguely juvenile to me. It's all about language, it's all about how you apply it to the page.

He felt for a moment uncreated. Another kind of awake.