I can only hold on to the things I want to lose.

Family are the people who must make you feel ashamed when you are deserving of shame.

The paper, the stapler, the staples, the tape. It makes me sick. Physical things. Forty years of loving someone becomes staples and tape.

Which, then, brings us closer to what we want to communicate: saying what we intend, or trying to say the opposite?

Why is taste, the crudest of our senses, exempted from the ethical rules that govern our other senses?

Sometimes people who seem good end up being not as good as you might have hoped, you know?

I thought for a minute, and then I got heavy, heavy boots.