He smiles and takes his index finger and presses it to my lips, leaves it there until my heart lands on Jupiter: three seconds, then removes it, and heads back into the living room. Whoa - well, that was either the dorkiest or sexiest moment of my life, and I'm voting for sexy on account of my standing here dumbstruck and giddy, wondering if he did kiss me after all.

At least, the sun had the decency to stay the hell away from us.

This is what I want: I want to grab my brother’s hand and run back through time, losing years like coats falling from our shoulders.

And then he smiles, and in all the places around the globe where it's night, day breaks.

I wonder why bereaved people even bother with mourning clothes when the grief itself provides such an unmistakable wardrobe.

What kind of world is this? And what do you do about it? What do you do when the worst thing that can happen actually happens?

My grandmother thinks it's really funny to put all sorts of things in our - my lunch. I never know what'll be inside: e.e. cummings, flower petals, a handful of buttons. She seems to have lost sight of the original purpose of the brown bag." - Lennie "Or maybe she thinks other forms of nourishment are more important." - Joe