Perhaps we've invented conspiracies for our own psychic well-being, to heal ourselves.

To portray America over the past twenty years or so, I would think immediately of football, probably the Super Bowl in its sumptuous suggestion of a national death wish.

Writing is a concentrated form of thinking.

Human existence had to have a deeper source than our own dank fluids. Dank or rank. There had to be a force behind it, a principal being who was and is and ever shall be.

She became confused when she stepped onto an escalator that wasn't working.

Her death would leave me scattered, talking to chairs and pillows. Don't let us die, I want to cry out to that fifth-century sky ablaze with mystery and spiral light. Let us both live forever, in sickness and health, feebleminded, doddering, toothless, liver-spotted, dim-sighted, hallucinating. Who decides these things? What is out there? Who are you?

In cities no one notices specific dying. Dying is a quality of the air. It's everywhere and nowhere.