I write about what I know; and I write about things that are new to me, and that I didn't know before.

One of those out-of-the-ordinary days that made sense of the slew of ordinary days. New York had a way of doing that. Every now and then the city shook its soul out. It assailed you with an image, or a day, or a crime, or a terror, or a beauty so difficult to wrap your mind around that you had to shake your head in disbelief.

The thing about love is that we come alive in bodies not our own.

We have to admire the world for not ending on us.

He looks like the sort of man who can't afford to leave, and doesn't want to stay, and so he is doing both at once.

The world spins. We stumble on. It is enough.

I'm a complete and utter fiction. Then again, we all are.