My plan was to never get married. I was going to be an art monster instead.

The only love that feels like love is the doomed kind. (Fun fact.)

A few nights later, I secretly hope that I might be a genius. Why else can no amount of sleeping pills fell my brain? But in the morning my daughter asks me what a cloud is and I cannot say.

One of the odd things about being a writer is that you never reach a point of certainty, a point of mastery where you can say, Right. Now I understand how this is done.

These bits of poetry that stick to her like burrs.

But now it seems possible that the truth about getting older is that there are fewer and fewer things to make fun of until finally there is nothing you are sure you will never be.

You think you want the blue skies, the open road, but really you want the tunnel, you want to know how the story ends.