I know what happens a the end of falling-landing.

You are helpful, and you are loved, and you are forgiven, and you are not alone.

I don't decide where I live. My wife decides. She's a curator of contemporary art, and she works at an art museum, so we go wherever she has a job. All basements look the same, so I can write from whatever basement I happen to be living in.

The part I enjoy most is not the doing, but the noticing.

Only now that I loved a grenade did I understand the foolishness of trying to save others from my own impending fragmentation: I couldn’t unlove Augustus Waters. And I didn’t want to.

That deep, can-still-taste-her-in-my-mouth sleep.

Nerdighters make me believe in America again.