I don’t want your candor. I want your soul in a silver thimble.

A dead afternoon in a dark bar was not the worst of fates.

He speaks in your voice, American, and there's a shine in his eye that's halfway hopeful.

War is the form nostalgia takes when men are hard-pressed to say something good about their country.

These are the days after. Everything now is measured by after.

Doesn't our knowledge of death make life more precious?' What good is a preciousness based on fear and anxiety? It's an anxious quivering thing

The world is full of abandoned meanings. In the commonplace I find unexpected themes and intensities.