The Santa Anas blew in hot from the desert, shriveling the last of the spring grass into whiskers of pale straw. Only the oleanders thrived, their delicate poisonous blooms, their dagger green leaves. We could not sleep in the hot dry nights, my mother and I.
How many people ask you to come share their life?
A fish has no concept of water.
A book's flaws make it less predictable.
Who are you? the band sang. I tried to remember but I really couldn't say.
Find someone who will tremble for your touch, someone whose fingers are a poem.