Life is populated with scarecrows—all those people and things that seem so scary and trouble our sleep. Isn't it nice to know that most of them turn out to be made of nothing but straw?

It was the day of the worms. That first almost-warm, after-the-rainy-night day in April, when you bolt from your house to find yourself in a world of worms. They were as numerous here in the East End as they had been in the West. The sidewalks, the streets. The very places where they didn't belong. Forlorn, marooned on concrete and asphalt, no place to burrow, April's orphans.

I’m not my name. My name is something I wear, like a shirt. It gets worn. I outgrow it, I change it.

He was the Grand Marshall of our Everyday Parade

Each night I lie down in a graveyard of memories. Moonlight spins a shroud about me.

Live today like there's no tomorrow!

Her smile put the sunflower to shame.