All sixteen mentioned her jutting ribs, the insubstantiality of her thighs, and one, who went up to the roof with Lux during a warm winter rain, told us how the basins of her collarbones collected water.

Some cities have fallen into ruin and some are built upon ruins but others contain their own ruins while still growing.

I'm constantly having doubts and moments of depression and then excitement and then back into the slough of despond.

The seeds of death get lost in the mess that God made us.

The television replaced the sound of conversation that was missing from my grandparents' lives.

I want an ending that’s satisfying. I’m more of a classical writer than a modernist one in that I want the ending to be coherent and feel like an ending. I don’t like when it just seems to putter out. I mean, life is chaotic enough.

So do boys and men announce their intentions. They cover you like a sarcophagus lid. And call it love.