I want an infinitely blank book and the rest of time.

I imagine a line, a white line, painted on the sand and on the ocean, from me to you.

But what she was really trying to say was this: I like music better than anything in the world, after you.

She saw through the shell of me into the center of me

In the morning, when the nothing vase casts a something shadow, like the memory of someone you've lost, what can you say about that?

She wants to know if I love her, that's all anyone wants from anyone else, not love itself but the knowledge that love is there, like new batteries in the flashlight in the emergency kit in the hall closet.

My greatest fear is feeling like a professional novelist. Somebody who creates characters, who sits down and has pieces of paper taped to the wall - what's going to happen in this scene, or this act. What I like is for it to be a much more scary, sloppy reflection of who I am.