It Was Once Suggested to Me that, as an Antidote to Crying, I Put My Head in a Paper Bag.

It's just a deep pleasure to read something you've written yourself - if and when you like it.

[O]ne of the mixed blessings of being twenty and twenty-one and even twenty-three is the conviction that nothing like this, all evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, has ever happened before.

The last sentence in a piece is another adventure. It should open the piece up.

New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself. To think of 'living' there was to reduce the miraculous to the mundane; one does not 'live' at Xanadu.

Nothing I read about grief seemed to exactly express the craziness of it; which was the interesting aspect of it to me - how really tenuous our sanity is.

Everything goes. I am working very hard at not thinking about how everything goes.