One small cloud, cast out by the herd, limps away to the west.

Let it be. Silly song, really. You let it be, it returns. There's the truth. You let it be, it drags you to the ground. You let it be, it crawls up your walls.

He said to me once that most of the time people use the word love as just another way to show off they're hungry. The way he said it went something like: Glorify their appetites.

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.

What was a life anyway? An accumulation of small shelves of incident.

People are good or half good or a quarter good, and it changes all the time- but even on the best day nobody's perfect.

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