It looked like an old painting, but real - everything achingly idyllic in the morning light - and I thought about how wonderfully strange it would be to live in a place where almost everything had been built by the dead.

He responded a few minutes later. Okay. I wrote back. Okay. He responded: Oh, my God, stop flirting with me!

We all romanticize the people we adore.

There is always the risk: something is good and good and good and good, then all at once it gets awkward.

Before any of it could make sense, it had to be heard.

So I let her go, too. And I'm sorry.

You know your problem, Quentin? You keep expecting people not to be themselves.