The voice of the nickly reflection of the moon was not as deep as you might expect. It was a singer’s voice, though, a tenor, one that loved itself without reservation. “I feel time like you dream. Your dreams are jumbled. You can’t remember the order of your dreams, and when you recall them, the memories bend. Faces change. It’s all in puddles and ripples. That’s what time is for me.

They were so in love with the world, and so disappointed in every aspect of it.

I always like the idea of doing interviews with somebody but completely seriously not ever mentioning what that person is generally known for.

The air is like being wanted, we say, and they nod approvingly. The air is like getting older, they say, and they touch our arms gently.

If your hand doesn't work for it, your heart doesn't feel sorry for it.

Dignity is an affectation, cute but eccentric, like learning French or collecting scarves.

My head was a condemned church with a ceiling of bats, but I swung from this dark mood to euphoria when I thought about leaving.