Or maybe I'd do what I always do - hang out and see what develops. Fatalist to the core.

I held her, he wanted to say, and if I knew for certain that all it would take to hold her again would be to die, then I couldn't raise the gun to my head fast enough.

Grief, I swear to God, doesn't live in the heart. It lives in the senses. And sometimes, all I want to do is cut off my nose so I can't smell her, hack my fingers off at the joint.

Maybe there are some things we were put on this earth not to know.

There's something ugly about the flawless.

The world according to Bubba is simple - if it aggravates you, stop it. By whatever means necessary.

I believe so deeply in the primacy of language, in lifting your prose to the highest level you're capable of and making your words symphonic.