I dream of lost vocabularies that might express some of what we no longer can.

The heart lies to itself because it must.

We exist with a wind whispering inside and our moon flexing. Amid the ducts, inside the basilica of bones.

I would say Pittsburgh softly each time before throwing him up. Whisper Pittsburgh with my mouth against the tiny ear and throw him higher. Pittsburgh and happiness high up. The only way to leave even the smallest trace. So that all his life her son would feel gladness unaccountably when anyone spoke of the ruined city of steel in America. Each time almost remembering something maybe important that got lost.

I'm vain enough to think that I've made a successful life. I've had everything I've ever wanted. You can't beat that.

We must have the stubbornness to accept our gladness in the ruthless furnace of this world.

Being alive is so extraordinary I don’t know why people limit it to riches, pride, security—all of those things life is built on. People miss so much because they want money and comfort and pride, a house and a job to pay for the house. And they have to get a car. You can’t see anything from a car. It’s moving too fast. People take vacations. That’s their reward—the vacation. Why not the life?